


love thy neighbor

by aziraphvle (strangehunger)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Character Growth, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Humor, M/M, Mildly Non-Linear Narrative, Mutual Pining, Neighbors from Hell - Freeform, Pining, Prank Wars, Romantic Comedy, Roommates From Hell, Slow Burn, The Arrangement (Good Omens), an attempt at least, idiots to lovers, only in the first chapter though, rom com, tense changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 01:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangehunger/pseuds/aziraphvle
Summary: It has been nearly six months since Aziraphale had moved to the suburbs just south of London, a quaint residence in a peaceful village, nestled next to a neighbor spat out of the depths of Hell.Loud parties. All manner of unpleasant scents, the more pungent of which Aziraphale is certain are illegal. A snake that is perhaps more accurately described somewhere along the lines of “basilisk”, which has found itself -- more than once! -- on Aziraphale’s side of the fence. Garish decorations, boarded up windows, strange guests at all points of night and day, and a neighbor nearly as charming as he is maddening.A confrontation gone wrong kickstarts a months long cycle of retribution between Aziraphale and his mysterious neighbor Crowley. What unfolds is a series of elaborate pranks and escalating annoyances that shatter Aziraphale's previously monotonous existence. Everything is going fine -- until an unwanted houseguest throws a wrench in the system, prompting Aziraphale to strike up an unexpected alliance...





	1. the art of war

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for so long, it feels strange to finally be posting it!
> 
> Have you seen the music video for Gives You Hell by the All American Rejects? Yes? Good, that's this fic, with a bit more twisting and turning, some extra Gay Tenderness TM, and a nice helping of character growth. 
> 
> I want to thank my sister, [decalexas](https://decalexas.tumblr.com)/[haelstorm](https://decalexas.tumblr.com), who is probably the only reason that anything I post makes even a fraction of sense. Any mistakes in here are mine, because I got impatient and wouldn't let her do another round of editing. Thank you to Brittany ([ineffvblehusbands](https://ineffvblehusbands.tumblr.com)) for being a fabulous hype man as always, and thank you to Morwyn for reading over this chapter and helping to provide some clarity. And thank you to all my other friends who have had to listen to me whining about this for ages. 
> 
> Some notes that should be obvious, but I wanted to touch on: The first chapter kind of jumps around in tenses for a reason, following chapters will even out, so this will be predominantly written in present tense. My sincerest apologies as well to anyone living in London; I know nothing about London, I've done the best I can, I'm just here for a laugh. For the sake of the story, we are going to pretend suburbs in the UK have lawns. If anything happens in this story that is too ridiculous to be possible, it probably is. Again, just here for a laugh. Another quick note to anyone who cares enough to keep reading: Crowley in this story has a trait known as coloboma of the iris, or keyhole irises -- essentially, a hole in the iris that causes the pupil to appear as if it is extended. This is mostly a nod to his eyes in the original story and doesn't have a huge effect on the plot, I just wanted to mention it here in case anyone had any questions about his description. 
> 
> Other than some editing, this story is essentially finished, and will likely be updating each Sunday for the next few weeks. If you want to talk to me about the story, or about anything at all, feel free to reach out to me on tumblr, where I am [aziraphale](aziraphavle.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Enjoy!

_ July _

It’s a little after one in the morning, and Aziraphale’s house has been shot. 

He rolls over in bed. Drags the pillow over his head. If he pretends that he is somewhere _ nice _ and _ quiet _ , he can simply ignore the warfare exploding outside his window. He slows his breathing, trying to think pleasant thoughts, and then he hears the tell-tale shatter of glass. Even that isn’t enough to rouse him from the comforting embrace of his bed -- until he hears the heavy fall of feet against the wood floor, followed by a _ disturbingly _familiar cackle of laughter. 

Heaving a sigh, he throws the blankets back and drags himself out of bed. _ Rolls _is, perhaps, a more accurate word. With a sense of satisfaction he works desperately hard to conceal, he notes that at least it came from the guest bedroom. 

Aziraphale throws a robe on before he leaves his bedroom. The last thing he needs is for Gabriel to scrutinize his late night attire. He nearly incapacitates himself not once but _ twice, _tripping over two separate stacks of books in his cluttered room. He pads out into the hallway, begrudgingly seeking out his guest. 

He has just made it into the hallway when the guest bedroom door is flung open, and he runs smack into Gabriel. The other party doesn’t seem to be bothered; Aziraphale, in comparison, thinks he might have been concussed. 

“We are under attack,” Gabriel informs him gravely. Even sleep addled, he looks frustratingly handsome, Aziraphale notes with disdain. His accent is somehow even more grating in the early hours of the morning, and Aziraphale bites back an acerbic _ “Oh, you should feel right at home.” _

“Oh, you poor _ thing _,” is what he says instead, most graciously. Because if Aziraphale is anything, he is a gracious host. Most often against his will, but still. He peeks around Gabriel’s door to survey the damage. One of the windows has been shattered. It lays in pieces on the floor, drenched in a morbid spray of… yellow. 

“I am _ so very _sorry about this, Gabriel. Er, sir. I will see to it immediately.”

“Hey, champ, I can --”

“--Heavens, no,” interjects Aziraphale, when it becomes apparent that his houseguest is willing --_ wanting _ \-- to intervene. “I simply could not let a guest face that kind of… riff-raff. Shenanigans. Please retire to the, er, sitting room. I’ll have something arranged for you as soon as I sort out this nonsense.” 

He spends a moment fussing over Gabriel, trying to lure him to the living area with offers of tea and shortbread. He isn’t sure Gabriel consumes anything other than coffee, water, and smoothies made with assorted species of grass, but still -- it’s polite to offer. As far as he knows, Gabriel has never eaten shortbread in his life. Once Gabriel is settled in the kitchen abusing the blender with vegetables and powders of unknown origins, Aziraphale takes off through the front door.

Quite predictably, he is shot the second steps outside. He wheels back in shock, nearly sending a potted plant toppling down the steps. He stumbles against the door frame for balance, pressing a hand to the explosion at his chest. His fingers come away blue, and he spends entirely too long fretting over the fact that he will _ never _get that stain out, hardly even caring that it’s like to bruise. 

“Alright there, angel?”

The familiar voice cracks out across the night, and Aziraphale pulls his gaze from the mess on his nightshirt. He squints into the dim night, only to see --

“Crowley.” Aziraphale gives his neighbor a quick once over, disdain dripping from his voice. 

Across the very small lawn, Crowley stands in front of the shack he calls a house, loose limbed as always. A paintball gun is clutched lazily in his grasp. He has foregone his usual dark sunglasses for a clear pair of protective goggles, but they don’t do much -- his goggles have caught the glare of a nearby streetlight, obscuring them almost entirely. A few wisps of dark hair have slipped from his short ponytail, and he blows it out of his face with a lazy huff. 

“What the hell--” a familiar sound rips through the night, and Aziraphale flinches as another volley of paint sprays the side of his house. “What the _ hell _are you doing to my house?” 

Crowley’s gaze flicks to the side of the house. Aziraphale dreads doing the same. In the dim light, he can see the reflection of a brick wall dripping with blue paint in Crowley’s goggles. 

“War is hell,” Crowley says with a shrug, and Aziraphale wishes to strangle him. “Collateral damage.” 

_ Lord give me strength, _ Aziraphale thinks, when another muffled shot of paintball against fabric sounds through the night air. He watches as one of Crowley’s roommates stumbles out from the garden, and he thinks he understands. If they were his roommates, maybe he’d want to shoot someone too. If _ Crowley _were his roommate, he would most definitely want to shoot someone. 

“Crawly!” Crowley visibly flinches at the nickname. Both he and Aziraphale swivel their heads, following the sound to the… fouler of Crowley’s two roommates, though the competition is certainly steep. Hastur, as Aziraphale knows him, rounds the corner. He wears a hideous trench coat stained with more than just paint.

“Ligur’s out. I -- What’s he doin’ here?”

“S’all right,” Crowely says. He gives a vague gesture with the gun, and inadvertently paints the grass at his feet. Aziraphale runs a hand over his face. At least it’s green. At least it’s not _ his _ lawn. “Ligur’s out?” 

“Yeh, he--” 

Crowley lifts the paintball gun. A spray of purple explodes against Ligur’s coat. If you ask Aziraphale, it’s quite an improvement. “And I think that’s you,” Crowley says. “You can take the kitchen.” 

Letting out a low stream of curses, Hastur storms off back to their shared house. Most of the more… creative swears are lost on Aziraphale. He isn’t sure he would want to understand them, anyway. The door slams, and that alone might have been loud enough to wake half the neighborhood. It is a wonder none of them have been evicted. 

Aziraphale darts an irate glare toward the house, and then back to Crowley. Just the two of them, in the warm night air. Another tendril of hair slips from Crowley’s ponytail, settling softly against his face, and Aziraphale momentarily follows its path with his gaze. He clears his throat.

“I have been quite clear, _ Crowley _, that I’ve had enough of this… nonsense,” he says, as diplomatically as he can manage. “I do not care what you and your -- your den of iniquity get up to during the day --”

“‘_ Den of iniquity. _” A slow smirk spreads across Crowley’s face. “Really?” 

“-- but I will _ not _have you gallivanting about--”

“-- oh, of course not --”

“-- destroying my house --” 

Crowley adopts an expression of exaggerated, affected contrition. He bobs his head up and down with vigour.

“-- and --” Aziraphale raises his voice a little louder, though he is certain Gabriel is probably still having a go at it with the blender and can’t hear him anyway “--_ disturbing _my guest!” 

“Wouldn’t _ dream _of it, angel,” Crowley says, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Some of us have work in the mornings, you know. Important work.” 

“Of course -- of course!” Crowley agrees. “Not like the rest of us are doing anything with our lives.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. Even after months of this kind of ridiculous behavior, Aziraphale isn’t sure what he does, exactly, that he keeps such strange hours. Gabriel has suggested a few. Drug dealer. Exotic animal smuggler. Telephone marketer. Something that should be reported to the police, in any case. Aziraphale tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t keep him up at night wondering. 

(He has to think about _ something _while his neighbor keeps him up with crazy parties and late night sorties.)

“Quite,” Aziraphale says at length. “In any case, I insist that you end these… these shenanigans.” He finishes lamely. 

“What, you’ve never had a little… household dispute over the cleaning?” 

Never. Until very recently, Aziraphale had lived alone. Alone, but not lonely. Well -- not often lonely. He had books, which he has learned very recently are by and far preferable to any roommate of human stock. The vision of a blender stained green with grassy sediment sitting in his sink comes unbidden to his mind’s eye. 

Aziraphale thinks maybe he does understand wanting to shoot someone over the cleaning. 

Crowley glares down at the mess of paint at his feet, sidestepping the carnage. He looks up at Aziraphale with raised eyebrows, lips pressed together in a firm, smug line. The movement has changed the angle of the streetlights, and his eyes are visible behind the clear plastic of the goggles -- his strange, lovely eyes, spliced by an extended pupil. Aziraphale clears his throat again. 

“I suppose I can… understand _ some _ contention. But,” he raises his voice at this again, “I’ll have you know that if this happens again, I _ will _call the police.” A beat passes. He wishes he had someway to wipe the smirk from Crowley’s face. “And one of you will be paying for my window.”

“Certainly,” Crowley drawls. “Am I free to go, officer?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He presses his palm against the doorknob, ready for the night to be over. “Just -- go to bed. _ Good night. _” He says acidly. 

And then, he gives Crowley a _ look. _ Not the most efficient form of human communication, but certainly one that has been employed, with various rates of success, throughout the course of human history. It might mean anything, but in this particular interaction, it means, _ You _ broke _ his _ window _ ! _

Aziraphale thinks he gets the point across. Perhaps the murderous intent, at least. Crowley, for his part, responds with a gesture that is by and far more inscrutable. 

Crowley winks. 

Whatever _ that _means. 

“Night, angel,” he says, not unkindly. And then his back is turned, and Aziraphale watches as he makes his way across the abused patch of grass that had once been a lawn. He disappears, shutting the door behind him at a much lower decibel than his roommate had, and Aziraphale is left gripping the doorknob, white-knuckled, as the night air is suddenly, blissfully quiet. 

He stands there a moment, before letting out a deep sigh. With the heavy head of a man condemned to death, he finally slips back into his house, miserable at the prospect of having to sacrifice his own bedroom for Gabriel. Lord only knows what will come of _ that. _

* * *

What comes is, unfortunately, the further displacement of his books. It has been nearly two months since Gabriel has taken up residency with Aziraphale, just long enough that Aziraphale is beginning to question the extent of the renovations on his employer’s house. The situation had been disclosed to HR, of course, resulting in some of the most mortifying rumors of Aziraphale’s career, but regardless he has spent an ungodly amount of time in reading the company handbook for a workaround. While it certainly has much to say about “workplace harassment” and “fraternization”, there is quite little to say about what the proper etiquette is when an employer installs a pull-up bar in one’s library. 

And so, Aziraphale sleeps on the couch. Insufferable as an employer as well as a roommate, Gabriel makes an impeccable morning alarm; he comes thundering down the stairs at five o’clock in the morning on the dot for his morning run. Aziraphale pretends to sleep through it. He lives in perpetual fear that one of these days Gabriel might just drag him along. 

Once Gabriel is gone, he concocts a cup of tea and surveys the damage. Half of the guest bedroom wall has been colored yellow, and a spray of glass glitters on the floor just to the side of the bed. Aziraphale stares at the damage bleakly, and considers that his tea just might need a splash of rum. 

It has been nearly_ six _months since Aziraphale had taken up this little suburban residence, a semi-detached unit in a village just south of London. The neverending sprawl of development had taken him from his previous home and into this one, a simple residence in a nice area with a neighbor spat out of the bowels of Hell. 

Loud parties. All manners of unpleasant scents, the more pungent of which Aziraphale is certain are illegal. A _ snake _that is perhaps more accurately described somewhere along the lines of “basilisk”, which has found itself -- more than once! -- on Aziraphale’s side of the fence. Garish decorations, boarded up windows (looking at his own shattered window, Aziraphale finally suspects the reason why), strange guests at all points of night and day. 

Midnight paintballs careening through Aziraphale’s window. At least none of the books had been in the guest bedroom. 

_ “You should sue, _” had been Gabriel’s grand advice the night before. Unsurprising advice, coming from an American, but Aziraphale supposes that had he any sense, he probably would. Instead, he handles the situation as he does most of his problems: he pulls the blinds closed and the door shut and goes on with his life. 

_ April _

It started with a party. 

It started with a party, which Aziraphale had been quite certain was a riot.

He had been new to the neighborhood, but Crowley -- Crowley, Aziraphale had assumed at that point, had lived one door down since the dawn of time. At least, he had already been settled in when Aziraphale arrived. The exterior of the house, worn and weathered and pockmarked with all manner of paint and strange decoration, pointed to quite some time before that. Aziraphale hadn’t seen much of him, just a lanky figure sauntering to and from a car that looked like it had been spat out of a period drama. Aziraphale could barely look at it for fear of tainting its pristine black surface. 

Despite little interaction, Aziraphale had certainly _ heard _Crowley and his band of misfits, or at least the unending pulse of music that blared across the neighborhood every few weekends. It had been mildly annoying yet tolerable for the first few months, but as a frigid winter melted into a moderate spring the music had only grown louder, eventually reaching an unparalleled crescendo in April. 

Aziraphale had rolled over in bed, a pillow smashed over his head, and tried to sleep through it. Though his colleagues had either not cared or been too polite to say anything, he had looked like a corpse at work the next morning. The only perk of the morning traffic was that Aziraphale had been able to catch a quick nap during a routine jam on the M-25. 

And then, there was another party. The occasional lawn mower at three in the morning. That house resembled some cross between a university flat and a clown house; Aziraphale wasn’t sure how many people resided there, but he was certain it had crossed the legal threshold about five occupants ago. 

They were decidedly nocturnal, as Aziraphale could count the number of times he had seen any of them in living daylight on one hand. When they weren’t asleep, they were hungover. Or so Aziraphale assumed. At that point, he had never seen Crowley, at least, sans sunglasses. 

Three weeks and just as many parties in, Aziraphale had been over it. 

Had he known what he knows now, he may have just let it slide. Invested in a pair of earplugs and resided comfortably within his little home of one, soaking in the company of old books and a warm cup of tea before it could be intruded again. 

Then again, knowing what he knows now, maybe he wouldn’t have changed a thing. 

Instead, he had marched up to the house and hammered on the door. Holiday decorations, either months too early or months too late, intermingled with a frightening amount of cobwebs in the rafters above. One of the windows on the lower floor had been shattered, and the glass had been replaced with spray painted plywood. Aziraphale briefly considered that a spot of arson might actually improve the property value of the entire neighborhood. 

The door swung in, mid-hammer. Noise poured out. 

Standing in the doorway was a being of indeterminate gender, dressed in an oversized smoking jacket, a loose tie, and a deerstalker hat, flaps pulled down over the ears. No discernable trousers, but they did sport a pair of bright red Wellingtons. A cigarette dangled from their lips. The irate stare they greeted Aziraphale with smouldered harsh enough it might immolate him on the spot. 

An awkward silence settled over the two of them. Well, as much silence as could be found, what with the percussion-heavy music roaring from within the bowels of the house. 

“Er… hello,” said Aziraphale, trying to plaster on his brightest smile. 

It was met with a cloud of smoke to the face. The person pulled the cigarette from their lips , expelling the nicotine directly into Aziraphale’s airways with a careless, “Yeah?”

Aziraphale waved the smoke away. It had been ages since he last smoked, but he suddenly found himself longing for the relief of a bit of nicotine. Based on the pungent, earthy smell coming from the house, he might even be able to acquire something a bit harder. 

“Excuse me -- so sorry to intrude, so, you know, late in the evening, but -- would you happen to be the proprietor of this --” he watched as an unidentifiable object went flying behind the person’s head, followed by a loud crash, and struggled for the right word “-- residence?”

“No,” said the person and slammed the door in his face. 

Aziraphale stared at a door that had probably once been white. He could leave it -- go home, burrow his head as deep as possible into a pillow, and try to sleep. But if Aziraphale was anything, he was patient. And if he wasn’t patient, he was perseverant. He hammered on the door once more. 

“_ CRAWLY _.” 

A voice boomed through the house, so loud it seemed it might -- well, there was no glass to shatter, but certainly rattle the planks of plywood in the window. Aziraphale jolted, momentarily shocked out of his onslaught of the door. A series of crashes resounded from within the house. He flinched at each one. 

The door opened to someone else entirely. 

A man just a few centimeters taller than Aziraphale stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised over a pair of dark sunglasses. His hair, a deep red, was worn long, grazing the tops of his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but there _ was _a black snake draped around his neck like a scarf. In his hands, the man clutched a brilliantly lush potted plant. 

“Hullo?”

“Uh -- quite. Hello.” 

An awkward silence settled over the two of them. Despite being unable to see anything but his own reflection through the dark lenses of the man’s glasses, Aziraphale got the sense he was being sized up. By man and snake both. 

“Can I, ah, help you?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, you see, er, Mister….. Crawly --”

“Crowley.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Just Crowley.” 

“Yes, well --”

“And you are?”

“I -- oh. Me?” 

The man -- Crowley -- cast a pointed glance around, and Aziraphale realized quite quickly how stupid of a question it was. “Yes, you.” 

“Oh, I’m. Um. Aziraphale.” Precisely how he usually introduced himself. There weren’t many Aziraphales around and, besides -- his last name was near impossible to pronounce. 

To his credit, Crowley took _ that _surprisingly well. He quirked one eyebrow, but said nothing. He seemed far too preoccupied by the potted plant in his arms, carefully adjusting it so it was propped against his hip like a small child. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat and said, “I’m your neighbor, you see. Just over there,” he motioned to the side, to his own (far more respectable) semi-detached unit. “And I just wanted to ask if you would be so kind as to turn your music down. It’s quite late, you know.” 

Crowley stared at him for a moment. Evidently, the dark night sky and blanket of stars spread out over them was not evidence enough. He glanced down at his wrist, surveying a watch so fine its value probably exceeded that of the property they stood on. 

Not that that was hard to achieve. 

Crowley glanced back up at Aziraphale. “Music, down. Sure. Worth a shot.” 

“Oh.” Well, that had been easier than expected. “Oh, why thank you. I guess I’ll just be…” Aziraphale jerked his head towards his own house, feeling suddenly tired. The man said nothing, just stared at him, mouth pressed into a firm line. “Right, then. Well. Good night.” 

He turned to go, aware of two pairs of eyes following him as he went. He glanced down at the left sleeve of his robe, which had come away from the door with an unidentifiable stain that Aziraphale was certain hadn’t existed before. He was far too hesitant to smell it. If bleach wouldn’t do, he supposed, then perhaps he’d have to burn it. 

“Aziraphale, was it?” 

Aziraphale froze at the foot of the stairs. He turned to see Crowley leaning against the door, either unaware or uncaring that something there was a biohazard. He shifted the pot against his hip, and a shiver shifted down Aziraphale’s spine as the snake slipped from Crowley’s neck and down the stalk of the plant. 

“Oh? Yes,” Aziraphale said, desperately trying to watch anything but the rustling green leaves. 

“Unusual name.” 

And there it was. At least he had pronounced it correctly. 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, as icily as he could muster. “Religious parents. You know how it is.” 

“Ah. What, an angel or something?”

“Yes.” The sharp tone in his voice did little more than draw a quirk to Crowley’s lips. “Or something.” 

Crowley dipped his head in acknowledgment. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by another series of bangs and crashes from within the house. Grimacing, he slid a hand up to his face, tilting the sunglasses down as he threw an irate gaze toward the mayhem unfolding in the interior of the house. Aziraphale saw just a glimpse of light eyes before the glasses were pushed up again. 

“Well, then,” said Crowley, turning back to Aziraphale. His mouth drew into a full smirk. “Night, angel.” 

And then he slipped back into the house, closing the door on Aziraphale’s red face. 

“What,” Aziraphale asked himself, perhaps the entire way to his own residence, “the _ hell _.” 

He spent the rest of the evening not-so-silently fuming. He had quite some time to do so: he collapsed into bed as soon as possible, laying in wait for the music and chaos of the house next door to recede, giving way to blissful silence. 

It did not come. 

Aziraphale eventually succumbed to sleep at about four in the morning, two pillows jammed over his head. 

_ July _

“What have you got there?”

The screen in front of Aziraphale reads: 

_ Fire hose. _

_ Paint -- Pink. _

_ Take out box -- Chinese _

_ Glitter -- multicolor, 2 kg _

_ Spring coil? _

_ Home surveillance system. _

_ Pressurized air can. _

_ Paintball gun. _

_ Balloons -- as many as possible. _

_ Wheelbarrow. _

_ Patchouli? _

_ Bolt cutter. _

_ Paint, Red. _

_ Church organ? _

_ Surround sound system _

Aziraphale probably breaks some law of physics with the speed at which he minimizes the window in front of him., replacing it instead with an elaborate spreadsheet filled with figures that Aziraphale has been ignoring for the past thirty minutes. 

“_ Heavens _,” he says, a hand flying to his heart. He swivels in the chair, coming face to face with Anathema, who he primly repremends for nearly sending him to an early grave. 

Anathema shrugs. Despite his better judgment, she is perhaps Aziraphale’s favorite person around the office. Aziraphale is, of course, _ kind _ to all of his colleagues, with the same kind of general niceness he extends to the greater human race. Try as he might to delude himself that he actually _ likes _most of them, he often fails. And even though Anathema has the air of someone who burns incense and reads astrology columns and would walk around London barefoot were it acceptable, Aziraphale truly does enjoy her company. 

He casts a glance around the office. Empyrean Associates occupies the top few levels of a gleaming “miracle of modern architecture” that Aziraphale believes more accurately falls under the umbrella of “an affront to God and physics alike”. The blindingly white surfaces are glossy and sterile as a surgical ward and, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin, _ open _\-- all the way to the circular desk that Gabriel spends his days swiveling in. 

Bouncing is, perhaps, the better word. In lieu of a chair, he has inserted an exercise ball. 

The financer’s office is beautiful, and polished, and pristine, and everything Aziraphale feels he is not. 

Which is probably why he likes Anathema. Not only is she wickedly clever, she is also the kind of girl who totes around enormous old books half her size for “light reading.”(Her bag also conceals, as Aziraphale had learned during a rather eventful walk to the Tube after an office party, a bread knife and a bushel of sage) Her long, loose clothing is a sharp contrast to the cut and carved tailoring of the rest of the office, with their clean lines and smooth features. Anathema, like him, is just a little bit...different. 

But that doesn’t mean that Aziraphale is necessarily going to spill the more eventful aspects of his life to her. He makes a great show of pretending to be busy. He clicks between a few spreadsheets, enters a number of formulas at random, and ignores as Anathema sinks into the horribly uncomfortable but undeniably chic white chair next to him, uncaring that the owner of the desk will probably release divine wrath upon her as soon as they return. 

She has an iPad in her hand. She, too, has a spreadsheet open. Aziraphale knows from experience that this is simply her screensaver. With a flick of her finger, the screen shifts, bringing something else up entirely. More wedding plans, Aziraphale assumes. 

Anathema says, “What do you need two kilos of glitter for?” at about the same time that Aziraphale asks, “Do you happen to have any incense?”

The answer to his question is, undoubtedly, _ yes. _The answer to hers is far more complicated. 

“Er,” says Aziraphale. And then, after a beat, “Did you already submit that report? The one for Michael? I’ve yet to receive it.”

“Yesterday. Are paintball guns even legal here?”

“You would be surprised,” Aziraphale mutters. 

“Lunch?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Newt and I wanted to invite you to lunch,” Anathema says. The two had met little over a year ago in this very office, on the fateful second and final day of Newt’s internship, when he had managed to trigger a power outage across seven floors (and a backup generator) that, in the midwinter months, had nearly resulted in a handful of severe cases of hypothermia. “We’re going to be cake tasting and I need backup.” 

It pains Aziraphale beyond belief to say no. His eyes flick to the blinking clock in the corner of his computer screen. The hour changes, and he logs out of his computer and gathers a jacket in hand. “I’m _ very _sorry, my dear,” he says. Even a deaf man could hear the suffering in his tone. “I’m afraid I’ve already made plans for today.” 

“Huh,” says Anathema. She doesn’t say anything else, just -- watches him. When he rises to pull on his jacket, she drops her iPad on the computer, and follows. 

“You’ve been busy lately, haven’t you?” Anathema asks. The two drift through the office carefully, Aziraphale leading the way. He typically follows one of three predetermined routes in and out of the office, each one focused on clinging as close to the windowed walls and as far from Gabriel as possible. 

“Yes, well, it’s that time of year, I suppose --”

“I don’t mean work,” says Anathema. She, too, is familiar with this route, and her eyes flicker across the office as they go, scanning for any sign of interference. “You’ve had quite a few lunch dates, haven’t you?”

They have made it undetected to the frosted glass doors that separate the main office from the reception area. Embossed into the glass is the Empyrean Associates logo, and under it, the company slogan: _ Miracles are what we do. _

Aziraphale tenses. “Have I?” 

“You have.” 

Thankfully, it’s just the two of them in the elevator. On the downside, Anathema is perhaps the most inquisitive person Aziraphale knows. Though she doesn’t necessarily _ pry _ , Aziraphale does have to face down her arched eyebrow and pursed lips for about ten flights as he tries to convince her that, no, he is certainly _ not _seeing anybody, hasn’t seen anybody in ages, why would she even ask that?

It’s not a lie, though a small part of Aziraphale might wish it were. 

When they finally separate in the street, Aziraphale hailing down a cab and Anathema heading to the Tube, she stops and says, “Nog champa or frankincense?”

“I’m sorry?”

“For the incense,” Anathema says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, already slipping into the back of a cab. “Whichever one smells worse.” 

_ April_

Once again. If Aziraphale was anything, it was patient, and if not patient, perseverant. 

But more than anything, and as much as he would deny it to himself, Aziraphale was petty. 

Which was why, the day after the unpleasant… interaction with Crowley and his band of degenerates had taken place, Aziraphale woke up at six in the morning and immediately set about the series of garden and grounds maintenance he had spent the last few weeks neglecting. Starting with a lawn mower. 

He wasn’t sure how many people actually lived in Crowley’s house, but a number of cars were still shoddily parked as tightly as possible along the sidewalk in front of his residence. One of them, having crossed the threshold of the sidewalk, was steadily encroaching on the grass. At least, Aziraphale thought acerbically as he made his fourth go over the long, tiny patch of grass separating their properties, the parade of cars obscured part of the street view of the house. 

Aziraphale must have mowed the grass round the front, back, and side of his unit at least ten times each that day, paying extra attention to the side adjacent Crowley’s place. After he had exhausted that option came the string trimmer, which he used to target the hard to reach areas around the house. 

If those hard to reach areas came astonishingly close to his neighbor’s property, particularly around the windows, well. That was the price one paid for a well manicured lawn. 

Despite the time of year, Aziraphale was contemplating the use of the leaf blower when someone stumbled out of the house. A great, lumbering figure with pale hair whose pajama of choice was apparently an enormous trench coat. Either the whole “walking” thing was new to him, or he was very, very hungover, because he nearly knocked over a number of potted plants and an ashtray on the porch. 

Judging by the rapid movement of the lumbering man’s mouth, he had a couple of choice words for Aziraphale. Aziraphale shot a bright smile back at him. He pointed to the string trimmer, then the pair of earmuffs fit snugly around his head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he shouted over the noise with a sense of sadistic glee that he internally justified as righteousness, “I can’t hear you! It’s just. So._ Loud _.” 

When the man started shrieking at him in earnest, Aziraphale simply revved the trimmer, smiling as he went about his work. He watched with glee as the ruckus backfired; a few moments later, the door flew open. The first person who had greeted him the night before grabbed their -- companion? roommate? friend? -- by the collar of his jacket, an impressive feat what with their height difference, and dragged him back inside. 

Not quite before the tall man could be sick on the front porch, though. Aziraphale found himself examining the short fence partitioning the two properties as the man emptied the contents of his stomach into a potted plant, solidifying Aziraphale’s plan to either toss or incinerate his poor robe. 

Over the next few hours, a slow stream of bodies began to leak out of the house. Aziraphale smiled and waved cheerfully at each and every one of them as they went, first from over the string trimmer and then, when it was apparent that he was going to shred his lawn to pieces, a leaf blower. 

It was sometime later, when he was mutilating his rose bushes with garden shears for the noble sake of petty revenge, that Crowley finally wandered out. 

Aziraphale had retired the heavy duty equipment and swapped it out for his car radio. The doors to the vehicle were open, Buddy Holly blaring across the neighborhood. Crowley sauntered out the front door looking -- well, looking surprisingly sharp; the jacket he wore was well cut, and his longish hair was brushed out of his face with a small knot at the back of his head. He still wore sunglasses, but he paused just as he reached his car -- the outrageously beautiful (and likely outrageously _ expensive) _ black one -- and pushed them out of his face when he saw Aziraphale poised over his rosebush. 

He regarded Aziraphale for a moment. Aziraphale gave a small wiggle of his fingers, the bluster and animosity from earlier somewhat lost under his neighbor’s unreadable stare. 

Crowley dropped his glasses back down and shook his head, a smile -- no, a smirk -- curving over his face, and then slipped into his car. 

As the car drove away, Aziraphale surveyed the collateral damage he had inflicted on his yard, and determined that it had been worth it. Clouds began to darken overhead, and Aziraphale retired to his library, where he spent the rest of the day perched beside the window, a cup of cocoa in one hand and a book in the other. The only interruption of blissful, blissful silence was the fall of spring raindrops against the panes of the window. 

* * *

It was a short lived victory. 

With the chaos of the work week descending over him again, Aziraphale quickly forgot about the… confrontation. He wasn’t sure what to call it, but the hellhole next door had gone quiet over the next few days. The only time he witnessed any signs of life were either very early in the morning as he was headed off to work and happened upon Crowley making his way back home from… whatever havoc he spent all night wreaking. He always spared a nod for Aziraphale, normally with one of those sly smiles of his, and Aziraphale smiled back only as much as was polite. 

Aziraphale could be friendly, but he certainly didn’t want to be friends. 

And so Aziraphale allowed himself to be lulled into complacency by the sudden silence of the house next door and the occasional early morning wave. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, stunned, to a singing young man dressed like an angel trying to deliver a kissogram at three in the morning on a Thursday night. “I think perhaps you have the wrong house.”

The young man did not have the wrong house, according to the card that he slipped Aziraphale, signed “A.J. Crowley.” Aziraphale groaned. Out of politeness and pity, he did allow the poor boy to finish his (rather good, actually) rendition of “Angel of the (very, very, early, Aziraphale thought) Morning”, and then turned him away with a handful of notes. When the boy attempted to fulfill the “kiss” aspect of the experience, Aziraphale nearly concussed himself by expertly dodging backward and slamming the back of his head against the door. 

The poor boy took the hint. Aziraphale went to bed with a throbbing headache, a few less bills in his wallet, and an earworm that made him wish he had, in fact, inflicted some kind of lasting damage to his head. 

The next morning, he passed Crowley as he headed off to work, who said nothing. Just gave a quick wave as he sauntered up to his front door, whistling the nauseatingly familiar tune of “Angel of the Morning” as he went. To Aziraphale’s sleep-deprived ears, it sounded very much like a declaration of war. 

* * *

And a war it became. 

Crowley sent Aziraphale a kissogram. Aziraphale signed “A.J. Crowley” up for every single junk mail subscription he could think of, from religious pamphlets to salacious magazines to conspiracy newsletters, and watched with glee when the postman had trouble jamming them all through the door slot. Crowley hid alarms around the property and Aziraphale spent the nights chasing them around, desperately trying to turn them off. Aziraphale invested in a sprinkler system, and then aimed it exclusively at his neighbors’ windows. 

It was infuriating. The weekend partying didn’t stop, but Aziraphale had invested in a pair of speakers that he could blast when doing his early morning cleaning or gardening or simply just sitting out on the porch with a cup of tea and the newspaper. At least he wasn’t breaking any city ordinances when he did it, though it was a wonder no one had called the police on Crowley yet. 

It was petty. It brought out the worst in Aziraphale. He realized at some point -- sometime between planting “LOVE THY NEIGHBOR” picket signs into every visible piece of land in Crowley’s yard and saturating the walk up to his house in bird seed -- that, perhaps, he should just be the bigger person. Walk away.

But then, Crowley would go and do something -- like plastering a “FOR SALE” sign in his front yard, or aiming a projector at the side of Aziraphale’s building and sitting out front with a bowl of popcorn -- and all of Aziraphale’s aspirations at being a friendly neighbor and good person went out the window. All’s fair in love war, he told himself. 

He found himself scribbling ideas down on sticky notes at work. At least it was something different -- something to keep the monotony of work at bay, to distract him from the neat rows of figures and finance that filled his day. It was -- though he would never admit it -- surprisingly fun. A sudden wrench thrown in his otherwise clocklike schedule, a deviation from the back and forth routine that took him from a home he didn’t feel at home in to a job that he downright hated. 

And then, Gabriel had moved in. 

_ July _

Holy Grounds is one of the many cafes in the Soho area that Aziraphale has endeared himself to over the past few years. There are a handful of them, to be certain -- when work is agonizing and Michael has him ready to lobotomize himself with a ballpoint pen, Aziraphale tends to spend his lunch breaks compensating for his job with a nice cup of tea, an even nicer pastry, and a good book. 

From the moment Aziraphale pushes the door open, his entry sung across the room by the tinkle of a bell tied around the doorknob, he feels at home. Aziraphale has never been a big fan of coffee -- English, through and through, he prefers a hot cup of tea or, when avoiding caffeine, a warm cup of cocoa -- but the aroma that wafts through the small shop is rich and comforting. 

Despite the late summer month, a spell of rain has been cast across London. The drum of water against the window panes lulls Aziraphale into a calm state, and he briefly entertains the fantasy of curling up in a corner somewhere with a good book and a cup of tea. 

Unfortunately, the rain has also driven people indoors, and Aziraphale has to awkwardly push his way back to his usual table. A steaming cup of tea already awaits him. A newspaper is spread out in the seat across from it, only the hands of the occupant visible behind the bold black and white of the print. 

Aziraphale takes a seat. The newspaper drops. 

Crowley looks well. His hair is pushed back, his jacket crisp and clean as always. Despite the dim, hazy lighting in the cafe and the incessant fall of rain outside, he still wears those damn sunglasses. Aziraphale feels, as he always does, the urge to lean over and pull them from his face, at least for a moment. 

“Busy day at the office?” Crowley asks. As usual, he has the appetite of a bird. The only thing sitting in front of him is a dainty cup -- a double shot of espresso, Aziraphale is sure. 

“Oh, just _ dreadful _,” says Aziraphale. He tips the small creamer into his teacup, watching the way the milk filters into the amber liquid and then finds himself sidetracked with ramblings about the inanities of his workday. 

He’s halfway through a rather elaborate complaint about one of the interns when a waiter drifts by their table, a plate laden with mouthwatering galettes in hand. He deposits the plate neatly onto the dark wood in front of Aziraphale, who is momentarily distracted by the alluring drizzle of hollandaise scattered artfully trickled over the thin cakes. 

“Oh, I didn’t --” 

Crowley’s got a money clip out of his pocket before Aziraphale can finish the sentence. He passes a couple of notes to the server, asks for another coffee, and instructs him to keep the change. 

Aziraphale protests. 

“You don’t --”

“You can get me next time,” Crowley says offhandedly, so casually certain that there _ will _be a next time. Aziraphale doesn’t dispute it. These rendezvouses have become astonishingly common. What started as an elaborate series of early morning and late night runs to take out the rubbish or retriever something from the car had, with the subtle slip of a phone number through a mail slot, escalated to texts. And then, when they had both happened to be in Soho at just the right time -- tea. And then a bit later down the line, lunch. A stroll through the park. 

Butter knife and fork in hand, Aziraphale cuts a bite from the galette with precision, carefully allowing for the correct ratio of vegetable to pastry to hollandaise sauce. He supposes it’s a fair assumption on Crowley’s part; Aziraphale can’t recall when he had last gone more than a week without seeing or speaking to Crowley. 

The galette is _ spectacular _. Aziraphale closes his eyes, taking a moment to savor the first bite, the rich blend of sauteed vegetables enveloped in smooth pastry. Crowley has, as always, chosen marvelously -- Aziraphale has rarely seen him eat so early in the day, but on the few occasions they have caught dinner together he has always had impeccable, if eccentric, taste. 

When Aziraphale opens his eyes again, Crowley is watching him. 

Well, he’s _ probably _watching him. It can be hard to tell, with those damn glasses on. Aziraphale flushes anyway, self consciously brushes at his mouth and mumbles an apology. 

“Good?”

“Terrific,” Aziraphale admits. He cuts another bite. “Thank you.”

Crowley nods. 

The conversation drifts. In theory, it’s about -- well, about the _ Arrangement, _ as all of these clandestine meetings are supposed to be. Acts of domestic terrorism against their respective housemates, from waterboarding Hastur’s bedroom window to waking Gabriel with rounds of paintball artillery. In the beginning it had been all business. Elaborate planning sessions, inventory of required materials, ground rules about what, exactly, was going _ too _far. The list stops just short of arson, and the longer he lives with Gabriel, the more Aziraphale is ready to reconsider that particular boundary. 

They’ve meandered from Aziraphale’s near murder of an intern over the copy machine to Crowley’s near murder of one of his housemates to a small Thai place in Brixton that Aziraphale simply _ must _take Crowley one of these days to current events when Crowley cocks an eyebrow and says, “So?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale asks. The only memory of the galette that remains on the plate is a scatter of crumbs and a thin smear of sauce, and Aziraphale contemplates whether or not it would be worth his dignity to lick the plate. 

“Have you thought about it?”

“Thought about what?” Aziraphale compromises. He uses the tines of his fork to elegantly scoop up as much of the remaining sauce as he can. 

“You should just quit,” Crowley says. The topic has become a familiar one, one that simultaneously thrills and exhausts Aziraphale. Crowley leans forward on the table, chin balanced in his hand. “Wouldn’t that solve all your problems?”

“Perhaps not _ all _ of them,” Aziraphale says, as lightly as he can muster and desperate for a change in the conversation. “I’d still have the most _ insufferable _neighbor.” 

“Is that right?” Crowley’s mouth quirks into the smirk that Aziraphale has become so accustomed to. Crowley doesn’t smile often -- certainly not at his housemates, certainly not at his neighbors, but Aziraphale has become quite good at coaxing it out of him. If only he could coax those glasses off his face as well. 

“Oh, the very worst,” Aziraphale agrees. “Keeps me up at all hours of the night.” Crowley’s eyebrows rise over his sunglasses, and Aziraphale realizes how suggestive it sounds. He allows it to hang in the air for a beat before nodding demurely down at his place and saying, “Excellent taste in food, I suppose.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “And wine as well.” 

Crowley shifts, leaning back into the chair with his familiar slouch. His smile is still sardonic, but something about it has softened at the edges. He takes a drink off of his tiny coffee cup before saying, “Well. Guess he can’t be all that bad.” 

“No,” Aziraphale says, voice softer than intended. “No, he really isn’t.” 

Crisis averted. Rather, crisis exchanged for another, Aziraphale thinks, as he stares down at his ripping reflection in the surface of the tea. His features are lost in the milky opaqueness of the liquid, which he’s glad for -- he doesn’t need to see the way his face has flushed a light red. When he looks up, he notes with satisfaction that the tips of Crowley’s ears have as well. 

Aziraphale changes the subject. 

He’s quite good at it. He redirects, he avoids. They’ve shared the same conversation a number of times, and it just goes round and round in circles. Crowley, Aziraphale has learned, is one who is quite content to throw caution to the wind, but Aziraphale -- Aziraphale finds himself caught on the same looping circuit, unable to break out of the routine, too haunted by _ What if? _to take any kind of plunge. 

So he could quit -- but what if he couldn’t find anything better?

So he could try and put those savings to good use, start up that bookshop -- but what if he failed?

So he could reach across the table and place his hand over Crowley’s on the table, or over dinner, or while exchanging mixed up mail on a Tuesday morning -- 

But what if Crowley held back?

It’s easy to enjoy a finely aged wine, or the dulcet swell of a symphony reaching it’s crescendo, or the soft touch of old paper between one’s fingers. Aziraphale knows how to _ indulge. _He doesn’t know how to actually take hold of his own happiness or, once he’s caught it, what he would do with it. 

And so, he neatly sidesteps the conversation, and says, “Say, do you know how to create a glitter bomb?”

It startles a laugh out of Crowley, who says, “Full of surprises, aren’t you, angel?”

They lend a few, hasty minutes at the end toward any maniacal plans they have in the upcoming week. Crowley’s list is drifting just to the other side of legal (Aziraphale’s has long since passed that landmark) when Aziraphale’s gaze falls on his watch. 

“Shit,” he mutters, quite without thinking, and Crowley outright grins. 

“You don’t like it? I thought that was a good one.” 

“Oh -- no, my dear, it’s perfect,” Aziraphale says. He misses the quirk of Crowley’s eyebrows, too busy fumbling for his mobile phone. 

_ 12:53, _the screen reads.

“I’m going to be late,” Aziraphale says. His voice sounds distant, hard to hear over the panicked thunder of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. An overreaction, perhaps -- but Aziraphale is not _ late _. Never in his life has been late to work. 

Across the table, Crowley checks the ridiculous contraption around his wrist that he calls a watch, eyebrows raised. 

“Ah,” is all he says. He rapidly drains his espresso, and stands. Slips a keyring from his pocket and asks, “Lift?”

It certainly isn’t the first time he has offered. Aziraphale drives, albeit rarely. These days, he carpools in an automobile that more resembles a spaceship than anything else, or walks on his lunch breaks. Catches the tube, when he’s feeling masochistic. 

All of those options are out the door, and it’s raining besides. He nods, helplessly, and follows when Crowley saunters out of the cafe.

Crowley has an almost supernatural ability to find curbside parking anywhere in London. Aziraphale finds this shocking; if he had a relationship with his car anywhere near as intimate as the one Crowley has with the Bentley, it probably wouldn’t leave his driveway. Sliding into the seat, Aziraphale is overcome by the sense of anxiety of a teenager meeting his date’s parents for the night, worried about doing a single thing wrong.

Crowley’s driving does little to calm Aziraphale’s nerves. If anything, it makes him wish he had ordered something a little stronger than tea during lunch. A low buzz of music filters through the card, the slow, rhythmic flow of _ The Velvet Underground _quietly filling the silence. The car smells like Crowley, like polished leather and aftershave. 

Through some act of God, they make it back to the office without incurring any murder charges. Trying for covert agent in a spy movie and probably attaining something more like paranoid office worker having an affair, Aziraphale insists that Crowley drop him off halfway down the block from his building. The atmosphere is further sustained by the frustrating impulse Aziraphale has to lean over and peck Crowley with a quick goodbye kiss, an impulse that he relegates as far back in his mind as he possibly can. 

Aziraphale dreads leaving the warmth and comfort of Crowley’s car to go back to the sterile, minimalist hellscape that he works in, but he peels himself glumly from the seat anyway. One hand on the door handle, he says -- “Well, I suppose --” 

“No need,” Crowley says, and then he leans over the bench of the car, and Aziraphale nearly goes into cardiac arrest. 

He is unsure _ what _, exactly, he expected Crowley to do, but it certainly makes more sense that Crowley leans past him, arm brushing Aziraphale’s as he flips open the glove compartment. Aziraphale spies on the contents as inconspicuously as possible as Crowley roots around in there. He counts no less than four distinct pairs of sunglasses before Crowley finds what he’s looking for, extracting a thin white envelope from the compartment before snapping it closed. 

Crowley holds the envelope out, and Aziraphale realizes, once again, the importance of breathing. It isn’t until Crowley’s eyebrows raise high over his sunglasses that Aziraphale realizes he’s supposed to take the envelope. 

“Oh,” he says, accepting it. Sheets of rain continue to drench London, but the car is warm, and he feels oddly sequestered from the outside world as he carefully peers down into the envelope, only aware of Crowley’s gaze on him. Nestled inside the white envelope are two matte tickets, the mark of the Royal Opera House boldly displayed on the corner of each. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale again. _ Tristan und Isolde, _ the tickets declare in blocky letters, reminiscent of a conversation a couple weeks past. They had done Italian for lunch, Aziraphale remembers, and his plate of _ tagliatelle all'arrabbiata _had gone nearly untouched, the meal derailed by a surprisingly rousing debate on Wagner. “Crowley, you shouldn’t --” 

“I didn’t,” says Crowley. “Gift from work. I can hardly take Hastur, can I?” 

“I suppose you can’t,” Aziraphale heard himself say, as if from far away. It was a fair assessment. Aziraphale himself was a creature of habit, but he had never seen the surliest of Crowley’s roommates in anything other than a trenchcoat that resembled nothing so much as a petri dish. He ran a thumb over the ticket in hand, brushing the matte finish as he tried to strangle the feelings that rose inside of him. In a flash of boldness, he puts a hand to Crowley’s arm and says, “It would be my pleasure.” 

Crowley doesn’t jerk, but his fingers to tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “Right,” he says, and then, “See you Friday? At seven?” 

“Of course,” says Aziraphale as lightly as he can. _ It’s a date _ sits on the tip of his tongue, but he is certain he’s made enough of a fool of himself today to last a lifetime. So instead, he tucks the tickets back into the envelope, and passes them back to Crowley. “Thank you, Crowley.” 

Outside, the summer shower drenches him before he can even make it into the building lobby. He probably looks a fool, dripping water across the gleaming white floor. He’s certainly smiling like one. 

_ May _

There was a treadmill in the library. 

“Just gotta keep moving, you know? Good for your heart. How can you bring your A-game _ mentally _ each day if you aren’t bringing your A-game _ physically.” _

Even more troubling, Gabriel was on top of the treadmill. 

“Hand me that water bottle, champ?” 

Aziraphale did as he was instructed, awkwardly moving the water bottle from where it sat perched on one of the bookshelves. He winced at the thin ring of condensation it left on the dark wood. Gabriel did not seem to care. He took a chug off the bottle. Wiped at seemingly invisible sweat. He looked like he had stepped out of the pages of a fitness magazine, and a part of Aziraphale that was _ very _hard to tamp down these days wanted to give him a sharp shove off the treadmill. 

“You should hop up here when I’m done. We’ll make a lean, mean, finance machine out of you, yeah?”

Perhaps the only thing saving him from a good push was the fact that whichever direction he went flying in, he’d probably end up slamming into a bookshelf. Gabriel was not the one Aziraphale was concerned for in that situation. 

“Oh, I don’t -- that’s very kind --” 

“Hey, hey, no problem at all! Just consider it a way for me to show my appreciation.” 

_ You could show your appreciation _ , Aziraphale thought, casting an acid glance around the room, _ by _ not _ invading my library. _

He should have known that when Gabriel said he was bringing “just the essentials”, he had a very, very different list of essentials than Aziraphale did. He looked around the room. A treadmill. Some torture device called a power tower. An _ exercise ball _, not unlike the one Gabriel used at work. 

Suppressing a bone deep sigh, Aziraphale threw a glance out the window and caught a pleasant view of the garden down below. Unlike his bedroom, the room didn’t have a single view of the neighboring unit, and it had become something of a reprieve from the real world. He wiped at the ring of condensation with his sleeve, mourning for the shelf and jacket alike.

Aziraphale didn’t know why things like this happened to him. Well, he supposed he _ did, _ but he didn’t like it. It was in his nature to be kind. More accurately, it was in his nature to be acquiescing. And so when his boss had started _ dropping hints _ about needing a temporary residence due to some renovations being done on his place, well, Aziraphale -- to be quite honest, Aziraphale had just flat out ignored it. And then smiled, and offered recommendations for hotels. And then other employees. And, eventually, when he was backed up against a wall because there were no other options -- _ hotels have bedbugs, _ or _ Michael’s place is too far _ \-- he had fallen to, _ Why, Gabriel, if nothing else will suffice, I suppose I _ do _ have a guest bedroom… _

And then Gabriel had moved in. Along with half his personal gym, a veritable parade of well tailored clothing, a blender, and a tray of grass Gabriel allegedly intended on eating. 

The last two weeks had been… hectic. Far more hectic, even, than Aziraphale’s ongoing prank war with the neighbor. Now, when the two passed each other in the early mornings, it was when Aziraphale was being emotionally manhandled into Gabriel’s fucking _ Tesla _ because _ carpooling _. One morning, Crowley had pulled up just as Aziraphale was throwing his briefcase into the back seat, and had simply sat idling in the driveway, watching the torturously slow descent of the backseat car door with a raised eyebrow shot in Aziraphale’s direction. 

Excruciating. 

The beep of the treadmill shutting off brought Aziraphale back to the real world. He pretended to listen with interest as Gabriel rambled about the specifics of his workout. Pretending to listen to Gabriel was an art that he had learned at work, which usually entailed piecing together every third word in order to protect his own sanity. He nodded when he thought appropriate. He wasn’t sure if he was good at it, or if Gabriel was just so full of himself so as not to notice. It was probably both. 

“Now,” said Gabriel, clapping a hand over Aziraphale’s shoulder, “let’s say we get started on that smoothie, hey? I think you’re gonna _ love _this new protein powder…” 

* * *

As much as he had complained about his neighbors -- particularly, his and Crowley’s admittedly childish prank war -- Aziraphale hadn’t realized how much he would miss it when it was gone. 

Since Gabriel’s arrival two weeks earlier, things had gone eerily silent. The pranks had fallen by the wayside; the neighbors were still loud and obnoxious as ever, but… impersonally so. Parties on the weekend, awkward run-ins with Crowley in the morning. With his work/life balance suddenly blasted to pieces, Aziraphale was exhausted enough he could probably sleep through the end of the world. 

The petty, sadistic side he normally reserved for his neighbors was secretly pleased each morning when Gabriel would come out of the guest room with grey bags pooling under his eyes, a symptom of having the room closest to Crowley’s place. That pleasure quickly faded to disappointment when Gabriel started blending up alfalfa and dehydrating peaches for a “breakfast of champions”. It formed into full blown self pity by the time Gabriel dragged him out of the house with a stomach queasy on “food” that resembled dirt in nearly every way imaginable. Particularly the taste. 

“...and you see, there -- _ there! -- _see that play, the way he --” and then, abruptly “--You really live with that?”

“Oh, yes, marvelous,” agreed Aziraphale, eyes still trained downward on his book instead of at the television, where Gabriel had rigged his laptop to play some godforsaken American football match. He had spent the last forty minutes trying to explain the game, play by play, to Aziraphale, and they were still only in the first quarter. Aziraphale had spent the last thirty trying to think of a polite way to extract himself from the experience. “Er -- I’m sorry, what?”

“You just put up with that?”

_ I put up with quite a lot _, Aziraphale thought, eyeing the TV screen disdainfully. What he said, though, was “How do you mean?”

“Your neighbors. Do they do that every weekend?”

Aziraphale paused. Tilted his head. He had become so accustomed to drowning the noise out that he hardly noticed, but when he listened for it, there it was -- the sound of rock music pulsing through the walls, loud enough he could make out the individual words. 

“Oh. Oh, my word,” Aziraphale said, snapping his book down. He carefully set it on the side table and stood, trying (and perhaps failing) to mask his glee at having an opportunity to escape ESPN. “That is simply unacceptable. Here, enjoy your… football --” why a sport played predominantly with hands and body slams was called football was beyond him “-- and I will go have a word with them.” 

And before Gabriel could say anything, he was out of the house. 

As soon as the door was shut behind him, Aziraphale let out a long sigh. He found himself folding down onto the stairs, sitting with his elbows on his knees and looking up at the sky. A net of stars hung overhead, their radiance drowned out by the droning row of street lamps stretching down the sidewalk. 

That was one nice thing about suburbia, Aziraphale thought. Noisy neighbors, _ horrific _commute on the M-25, but at least you could see the stars. 

He rested his head in a hand. He had wanted to move to London. That had been the plan, after all. Rent a small space, get a bit closer to work, maybe even open up a business. He thought about, it sometimes -- a nice, cozy little bookshop, completely devoid of exercise equipment, in the heart of the city. How lovely it would be, his own little piece of heaven in the midst of the big city, meeting with people who shared his passions each day. 

But rent for a flat in London was expensive enough, let alone a business. And it was a risk. Aziraphale didn’t know how to fall, at least without a net. 

And so he had a comfortable accounting job at a financing firm he hated, a boss that had completely rearranged his kitchen, and a neighbor that made his life Hell on Earth. He supposed he_ should _ask that the neighbors turn the music down, not that it would do any good. Maybe a better question would be if they had anything stronger than wine. 

He threw a gaze to the side, and was surprised to find one reflected back at him. 

“Oh, good _ Lord _,” Aziraphale said, jolting in surprise. A hand flew to his heart. He pulled himself into a standing position, attempting (and probably failing) to project a sense of pride into his posture. 

“Not quite,” Crowley said from where he leaned against the column of his own porch. Behind him, multicolored light seeped through the semicircle of glass paneling at the top of the door. The light shone yellow, partially ringing Crowley’s head in a fluorescent halo before pulsing to red, to blue, to green. 

Well, at least he was reasonably dressed this time. Not a single snake in sight, though he _ was _wearing a shirt. And a jacket. And a tie, not that it was done properly. Unsurprisingly, he still wore sunglasses. A cigarette dangled loosely between two fingers. 

“Shouldn’t you be…” Aziraphale waved his hand toward the house, searching for the right word. “Cavorting? With your friends?”

Crowley snickered, pushing himself off of the column. Aziraphale watched, uncomprehending, as he sauntered down his own set of stairs and over the grass, to the swath of sidewalk that raced past both of their places. A neutral zone. He swung an arm to rest on the wrought iron fence that divided their property. 

Aziraphale stood firmly in place. 

“Cavorting, is it?”

“Well, I don’t know what _ else _you’d call it,” Aziraphale huffed. 

Crowley raised his eyebrows. Took a drag off of his cigarette and then exhaled into the night air. The scent wafted toward Aziraphale and -- 

\-- and it had been years since Aziraphale had last smoked. A bad habit in college and then a stress cigarette here and there, but _ God _if he wouldn’t kill for a cigarette right now. 

Crowley, damn him, must have seen the hunger in his eyes. He flicked the cigarette, ash arcing in the air and settling onto the sidewalk, and said, “Smoke?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh, no. Thank you. I couldn’t possibly.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale inhaled. 

“Well, I suppose _ one _couldn’t hurt.” 

That earned him a smile. With as much dignity as he could muster, Aziraphale made his way down the front steps. He watched as Crowley fished a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket -- a miracle, really, that he could fit anything back there, what with how the dark jeans were practically melded to his skin. He offered a cigarette. Aziraphale hesitated, eyeing its slim body hanging in the air between the two of them. When he finally took it, his fingers brushed Crowley’s. 

Bringing a hand up to shield the smoke from the wind, Crowley leaned forward, using the lit end of his own cigarette to light Aziraphale’s. It took a moment, and then it smouldered. The deep red of the embers mirrored the color of Crowley’s hair, hanging in loose curls from his bowed head, so close that one lock nearly brushed Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said when Crowley pulled away. 

Crowley shrugged. The cigarette was, frustratingly, just as good as he had imagined. Aziraphale took a moment to bask in that first inhale. He let it out in a slow stream, watching the way it curled up into the night air and then repeated, voice softer this time, “Thank you.” 

“Rough night?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “I have the _ worst _neighbor imaginable.” 

A smug smile broke over Crowley’s face. “Yeah?” He asked. A hand came up to his face and Aziraphale watched as, for the first time since they met, the sunglasses came off. Crowley hooked them into the collar of his shirt and said, “Have you come to ask that we stop with our wicked ways?”

“Yes, well. Look what good that did me _ last _time.” Aziraphale flicked the butt of his cigarette. 

Crowley put a hand up in surrender. His eyes -- his eyes were quite stunning, actually. A warm amber color that, when hit by the light, shone warmly. In each eye, the ring of near-gold was disrupted by an extended pupil, a thick black line that stretched to the bottom of his iris. 

“I did try.” 

“Oh, forgive me if I don’t believe that,” said Aziraphale with a derisive snort. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabriel’s ridiculous Tesla, and rolled his eyes. “I suppose maybe I should thank you. It’s an excuse to get out of the house, at the very least.” 

Crowley followed his line of sight. When his gaze hit the Tesla, he raised an eyebrow, then nodded his head in the direction of Aziraphale’s place. “New boyfriend?”

Now _ that _sent Aziraphale into a coughing fit. Nearly choking on the smoke in his lungs, he shook his head wildly. Crowley clapped him on the back a couple of times. It wouldn’t help much anyway. If Aziraphale was going to die of anything over that, it would be of mortification. 

“My _ boss, _” Aziraphale finally got it, between bouts of coughing. 

That did little to dissuade Crowley. His eyebrows rocketed into his hairline, head reeling slowly back in surprise. “A little workplace romance?”

Despite the near death experience, Aziraphale took a moment to nearly inhale the cigarette. He shuddered at the prospect. “_ Heavens _ no,” he said. “Though I must say, I’m flattered you would think someone like _ Gabriel _ would go for someone like _ me _.”

Crowley gave him a quick once-over, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” 

“Oh. Um. Why. Thank you, I suppose.” Aziraphale was intensely aware of the red flush to his face. As well as Crowley’s raised eyebrow and the small smile pressed to his lips. Aziraphale jerked his head in the direction of the Tesla. “Though only a fool would subject oneself to _ that. _”

“Trouble in paradise?”

And for some unfathomable reason, Aziraphale let it all out. Leaning against the fence that separated their property, he unloaded on his horrible neighbor about his even worse housemate. The gym equipment in the library. Entire meals prepared in a blender. A patch of alfalfa growing in the garden round back. A rather strange fixation with _ The Sound of Music. _ _ American. Football. _ For the first time in two weeks of cohabitation, Aziraphale found himself relaxing as he sat out front with his weird neighbor, chain smoking cigarettes he would undoubtedly regret in the morning. He briefly entertained the thought of sneaking into the house to spirit away a bottle of wine, only for that hope to be crushed when he remembered that he had been forced to relegate the wine rack to the attic to save hundreds of pounds worth of wine from Gabriel’s wrathful onslaught on the pantry. 

“Just kick him out,” was Crowley’s brilliant solution. 

“I can’t do that,” Aziraphale said miserably. 

“And why not?”

“What kind of host would that make me?” 

“A sane one. Significantly less likely to be indicted on a murder charge.” 

He had a point. Aziraphale took a drag off his cigarette, and looked out at the quiet night. It was a Saturday night, late May, and yet Aziraphale had yet to see another soul out that night. It was just the two of them. A strange little pocket of solace. 

It was interrupted by a chorus of shouts erupting from (unsurprisingly) Crowley’s place. Both of them turned to follow the source of the noise. It was followed by a flash of light and then, suddenly -- silence crashed over them. The porchlights, as well as the multicolored light pulsing from the few scraps of window visible from the street went flickering out. 

Well. Perhaps there _ was _a merciful God after all. Aziraphale started to say as much, but Crowley put a hand up, cutting him off. 

“Give it a sec. Three… two…”

By the time he got to one, light flared up from within the house, followed by a series of triumphant whoops and screams. Crowley rolled his eyes, and turned back to face the street in front of them. Music pulsed aloud again, pouring into the street. 

“I suppose I know how you feel,” admitted Crowley. He ran a hand through his hair. “Terrible housemates, and all that.” 

“Tell me honestly,” Aziraphale said. “How many people actually live in that house?”

“Officially? Two.” 

Aziraphale glanced pointedly at the train of cars parked -- most of them poorly -- in front of Crowley’s house. He let out a sigh. 

“Well, it isn’t _ my _fault, is it? Signed the lease with an old friend, thought things’d changed, and the next thing I know, every regret of my twenties is standing on my doorstep. With booze.”

“Have you thought about, you know. Moving?”

“Angel,” Crowley said in a sardonic drawl, and Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin, “I’ve considered living in my _ car. _ ” He cast an affectionate look toward the vintage monstrosity tucked in the driveway, a safe distance away from the procession of beaten up bangers lining the sidewalk. He flipped his gaze back to Aziraphale. “If you can find a way to sublet _ that _\--” he motioned to the house “--I’m all ears.” 

Aziraphale hummed around his cigarette and said, as innocently as he could muster, “Insurance fraud?”

_ That _ caught Crowley by surprise. His eyebrows shot up, and his mouth crooked into a grin -- a genuine one, and then he was laughing, openly. It was infectious; Aziraphale found himself smiling quietly, unreasonably proud of himself. 

It was getting late. His cigarette had burned nearly to the filter, and he found his attention flitting back to the house. Heaven forbid Gabriel come looking for him -- he didn’t necessarily _ need _ a reason to be hanging out with his neighbor, but it was, well. A bit strange. He still wasn’t sure what it was that Crowley did for a living, but everything about him just… screamed _ different _to Aziraphale. Perhaps they were next door neighbors, but Aziraphale couldn’t shake the feeling that they were from two different worlds. 

Aziraphale stubbed the butt of his cigarette out against the wrought iron of the fence. He opened his mouth, ready to bid Crowley a good night, when Crowley turned to him nonchalantly and said, “I will say, though. You were doing a pretty good job there for a while.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The lawn mower,” Crowley said. “And the --” he gestured vaguely for a moment, searching for a word. “The leaf blower. The mail. All of that. Drove Hastur absolutely _ mad. _Great for a laugh.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He lifted a hand to his face, coloring slightly at the memory. How childish it had all been, but also… “And you?”

Those strange, alluring eyes of Crowley’s glinted under the streetlamp. His smile snaked into something more mischievous and said, “Well, _ I _love a good challenge.” 

Fun. It had also been fun. 

Aziraphale didn’t think himself the competitive type. He had become very good at deluding himself that he was above all of that -- but he supposed there was something of himself reflected in Crowley’s wolfish grin, the thrill of standing on an even playing field with a worthy opponent. 

“Yes, well. You certainly kept me on my toes. Keep this up --” he gestured back to the party still roaring behind them “-- and who knows. Maybe you’ll drive Gabriel out.” 

He meant it as a joke. Of course he did; this little… prank war had been fun, but Aziraphale did have _ some _dignity to maintain. And yet, without another word between the two of them, he saw the idea play across Crowley’s face. 

“No,” Aziraphale said. 

“But --”

“No, _ no. _ He is my _ boss. _” 

“And how long will he be staying here, hm?” Crowley stood upright, turning to fully face Aziraphale. He draped an arm around one of the spiked piles of the fence, the movement bringing his languid form ever slightly closer to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale mumbled something. Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“Come again?”

“Oh, _ fine. _ A couple weeks. Could be _ months. _”

“And you want to, er, what -- spend those months eating granola and watching _ The Sound of Music _? Over and over and --”

“-- Crowley, _ please _\--”

“-- and over and over and over?”

Aziraphale shivered. The thought was enough to summon morbid thoughts about how he could possibly put himself out of his own misery with that damn blender. 

“I mean, you hardly need _ me _ to annoy him out of his wits. It’s not like _ you _and your lot have toned it down recently.” 

“Quid pro quo, angel. You’ve got your boss, and I _ literally _have the roommates from Hell. We both need an out. Besides--” Crowley’s eyes narrowed in a way that Aziraphale was rapidly beginning to associate with trouble “-- what kind of host would you be if you didn’t, y’know. Stand up for your guest. Make him feel at home.” 

Aziraphale paused. Rolled that over in his head. More importantly, he focused on how bleak and boring his days had become once more, the monotony only broken up by the variation in what low-sodium, low-fat, low-carb, high-protein, dairy-free, gluten-free concoction Gabriel could force down his throat each morning. The word “ketogenic” had been thrown around a terrifying amount of times that day alone.

“I mean. I suppose that if someone were to take it upon oneself to harass my guest… it would be rather unbecoming of me to just. Let it slide.” 

“Oh, of course. You’d _ have _to do something about it. And think about it -- if it all works out, you lose your boss, I lose Hastur, everyone’s happy.” 

Aziraphale sized Crowley up, from the tips of his (rather nice, actually) shoes to the sly, expectant expression on his face. He seemed… practiced at this. He got the sense that people didn’t often tell Crowley what to do, and that those who _ did _probably had another thing coming.

“Are you usually such a terrible influence?”

“Oh, the _ worst. _”

After another moment of scrutiny, Aziraphale folded. “_ Fine _,” he said, resisting the urge to mirror Crowley’s smile. A thrill ran down his spine, and though Aziraphale tried to play it off as annoyance or discomfort or disapproval, he knew that feeling well. It was the same feeling he got when he happened upon a rare edition of a book, tucked away in a thrift shop that had no idea what they had on their hands. It was excitement. 

“So,” Crowley asked, extended a hand. Aziraphale eyed it suspiciously. “Do we have an agreement?”

“I suppose we do.” 

Sealing the deal, Aziraphale took Crowley’s bony hand in his own in a firm handshake. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, Crowley’s hand was _ freezing _\-- Aziraphale brought his other hand up to press against it reflexively. When Crowley’s golden gaze dropped downward, surprise drawn across his sharp features, Aziraphale hastily dropped his hand. 

“Sorry -- sorry! Your hands were just. Cold.” 

For a moment, Crowley’s mouth curved into a salacious smile. He opened his mouth to say something -- and then must have decided against it. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled, and then stubbed it out against the metal of the fence, just like Aziraphale had before. His eyes darted in the direction of Aziraphale’s place. 

“Someone going to come looking for you?”

“Oh -- oh. Why, yes. I suppose I should probably be getting on what with our… business here concluded.” 

“Sure, sure.” 

“I suppose you’ll… be in contact?”

Crowley hummed. “Something like that.” 

Aziraphale nodded. He found himself suddenly wanting another cigarette, though he was unsure if it was for the company or for the nicotine. “Well, then. Good night.” He turned to make his way back up the stairs, already rehearsing what to tell Gabriel once he made it back in. 

“Night, Aziraphale.” 

It caught his attention, the same way it always did when someone said his name correctly. At the top of the stairs, hand on the doorknob, he turned back. He caught a glimpse of Crowley’s retreating back, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans as he sauntered back across the lawn. 

Aziraphale shook his head. 

Back inside, the TV was still showing a messy tangle of American men in shoulderpads. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he had been gone, but he would not have been shocked to discover the game was _ still _ in the first quarter. Gabriel turned when he entered the room, mouth open to speak, but Aziraphale had had enough for one night, and he didn’t know if he could willingly subject himself to _ that _so late in the evening. 

“I _ do _apologize for the wait! Quite a bit of, er, persuasion it took, but you know me -- I persevere. It should be all squared away for now. I expect it should be getting a good deal quieter now.” And he bid Gabriel a good night, claiming (quite truthfully, even) exhaustion from the events of the evening. 

As he lay in bed that night, Aziraphale noticed -- not without glee -- that the music had only grown louder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated, I love hearing your thoughts and feedback! Tell me what you liked! Tell me what you thought was funny! Did it make you laugh? Cry? (If so, I probably did something wrong.) 
> 
> The next chapter should be out next Sunday, and the tenses and timeline will even out to the present a bit more. Please feel free to message me on tumblr ([aziraphvle](aziraphvle.tumblr.com)) if you want to talk about the story, Good Omens, or anything, really. 
> 
> Thank you!


	2. the enemy of my enemy is my...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arrangement, as Aziraphale and Crowley have titled their little alliance, is going smoothly -- the two of them have begun to engage in all sorts of psychological warfare on their neighbors, in an effort to rid themselves of a handful of horrible roommates. The two meet at concerts and at cafes, crafting plans for their respective roommates' downfalls and attempting not to fall for each other -- until a series of discoveries threatens to shatter their easy alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you to those who left kudos and kind words on the first chapter. I'm glad you've enjoyed this fairly niche little story of mine, and most of all, I hope it's making you laugh and have a good time. From here on out, the tenses and the timeline of the story will go a bit smoother -- it's chronological from here on out. I have a few more notes, but those will be at the end of the story to avoid spoilers. Enjoy! 
> 
> Once again, thank you to my sister and to Brittany, for helping look over this chapter and providing feedback along the way! 
> 
> And feel free to stop by and say hi on tumblr, where I am [aziraphale](aziraphvle.tumblrcom).

The show is, as expected, marvelous. As is the pre-show bottle of wine they manage to down in the Paul Hamlyn Hall, which leaves Aziraphale feeling light and airy, and the dinner (Aziraphale’s treat) in an upscale Italian restaurant afterward. 

None of it is quite as pleasant as the company, though. 

The night ends the way it begins, with the two of them headed off in their own cars. For the sake of plausible deniability, they had arrived separately. Crowley in his Bentley, and Aziraphale in an outdated but well maintained model that, while not quite as flashy, is certainly more respectable than Gabriel’s spaceship. Aziraphale had woven a rather elaborate web of excuses in order to make it out that night. While he supposes he doesn’t _ need _to tell Gabriel his every move, it certainly seems easier to ward off any innocently intrusive questions at the outset. As far as Gabriel knows, Aziraphale had spent the evening visiting a sister he does not have, but has spent the last few weeks slowly cultivating, should the need for escape arise. 

Aziraphale uses the night as inspiration when, the following Sunday, he releases gales of Wagner from the back garden at roughly six in the morning. He spends the early morning trimming the apple trees and humming along to _ Götterdämmerung. _

Crowley retaliates in kind that evening. Gabriel, having been relocated back to the guest room after a rather shoddy (whether intentional or not, only God could know) patch up attempt on Aziraphale’s part, receives a refreshing mist to the face when Crowley repositions his sprinklers in the dead of night. 

Not too many days have passed when Crowley catches him in passing once again, Aziraphale on his way into the house and Crowley on his way out for the evening. He has a stack of envelopes in one hand, an easy enough excuse for a rendezvous due to a rather incompetent postman. Aziraphale makes quite the show of seeming inconvenienced at this fact, rolling his eyes and theatrically condemning Crowley until Gabriel makes it through the front door. 

“What the _ Hell _are you thinking?” Aziraphale mutters, gaze darting toward the now closed door. He accepts the pile of mail, flips through it experimentally as Crowley talks. 

“Do I need an excuse to bask in your presence, o holy angel?” Crowley asks, jolly sarcasm dripping from his voice. True to form, he seems to have forgotten that he has a spine; he drapes one arm over the spike of the fence, leaning just beyond the boundaries of Aziraphale’s personal space. Aziraphale, unfortunately, enjoys this, so he says nothing about it as he flips through the envelopes. 

“The Arrangement -” 

“-- is working,” says Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s head whips up. They are closer than he had anticipated, because he nearly embeds the sunglasses into Crowley’s skull while doing so. Only quick action on Crowley’s part averts a near-fatal collision. 

“Is it -- is it really?”

Crowley produces a stack of newspaper clippings from the inner pocket of his suit. It resembles the work of a serial killer, but when held to the light, Aziraphale sees it for what it is: a series of classifieds, some of them highlighted. Some of them bear other stains as well, but Aziraphale tries not to dwell on them. 

“Hastur and Ligur,” says Crowley, “have been reading the papers quite a bit.”

“Didn’t know they had it in them,” Aziraphale murmurs, before he can catch it. It earns him a wicked grin. 

“You wouldn’t be the only one.” 

“Do you think…?”

“I don’t know what to think,” says Crowley, as he cards through the clippings. He pauses on one, even lowers his glasses to read it. “Some of them aren’t too bad. Flats, mostly. In the city.” 

Aziraphale shudders involuntarily. Sharing a lawn with the destructive duo is enough for Aziraphale, he can’t begin to contemplate a _ wall. _His gaze drops down to the paper in his own hands -- pamphlets, a bill, and, poking out from one of them, a pale blue envelope bearing Anathema’s name. 

“Oh, I _ do _hope the best for their future neighbors,” says Aziraphale, injecting as kindness as he can muster into his tone. 

Crowley shrugs, and voices both of their thoughts. “Yeah, well. Someone else’s problem, if you ask me.” 

Aziraphale presses his lips together neutrally. 

“What about your side? Any, y’know. Progress?”

“Rather the opposite, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale grimaces. He lightly taps the envelopes against the palm of his hand. “It seems the renovation has been extended.” 

Aziraphale has no idea why, and he has taken to tuning Gabriel out these days, so isn’t sure he’ll ever know. He doesn’t know what Gabriel could possibly be adding to his place that is taking so much time. He fixes the Tesla with a withering glare. A landing pad on the roof, perhaps?

The news had been met rather well by Aziraphale, who had retired to his room with a bottle of wine and a chest swirling with conflicted feelings. As loath as he is to spend another moment in Gabriel’s presence, as nauseating as the constant scent of protein powder and the sound of meditation soundscape generators, Aziraphale can’t help the swell of anxiety that crests within him at the thought of his leaving. He has always told Crowley that he will welcome Gabriel’s exodus with a bottle of champagne, but as he eyes the newspaper clippings in Crowley’s hand, he can’t help but wonder what will become of the Arrangement once this is all over. 

Crowley, however, doesn’t seem concerned. “Yes, well. Guess I’ll just have to keep at it, then?”

It coaxes a smile out of Aziraphale. “I suppose we shall,” he gives Crowley a quick once over. “No rest for the wicked, it seems.” After a beat, he nods to the Bentley. “Are you off? Just now?” 

“No rest for the wicked,” Crowley agrees. He glances down at his watch, the hideous, extravagant monstrosity, and Aziraphale can see his eyes roll just behind the shades. “I better be off. See you around, angel.” 

Aziraphale murmurs his goodbye, though other questions weigh heavy on his tongue. He still hasn’t the faintest idea what Crowley actually does. The question had surfaced in various forms over the course of their -- friendship? partnership? Crowley had slithered his way out of providing a concrete answer with a shrug of his loose shoulders and said, _ I freelance, mostly, _which could mean anything from being an Uber driver to an exotic dancer. 

Just as he’s about to turn, though, Crowley stops in his tracks and says, “Nice job.”

“Oh?”

“With the Wagner.” 

“Oh, well, what can I say,” Aziraphale says, gaze following as Crowley drifts toward the car, props the door open. “I was inspired.” 

Crowley pauses. He leans over the top of the car, one arm loosely balanced on the open door. It catches Aziraphale off guard when he slips his sunglasses down his nose, offering a rare glance at his unguarded expression. “That so? Perhaps I can inspire you to lunch on Tuesday?”

“Perhaps.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t think he will ever grow tired of the way a grin cracks over Crowley’s sharp features, starting at the corner of his mouth. Unfortunately, he also doesn’t know if he will grow past the urge to press his thumb just there, either. “See you around, angel,” says Crowley. 

And then he slips into his car, tears out of the driveway like a bat out of hell, and speeds off into the early evening. 

* * *

Not much later, Aziraphale gets an answer. 

He’s in his bedroom, preparing to settle down for the evening. It is blissfully quiet, for once. The cacophony of “music” he has come to expect from the neighboring abode has yet to make an appearance, and the infuriating thump of running feet against treadmill just down the hall has finally subsided. He’s humming along to the radio, a Mozart concerto sweeping quietly through the room, as he picks through the shelves for a book. 

The radio cuts, quite suddenly, to static at the exact point that Aziraphale finds what he’s looking for. He slips the book from the shelf, pausing en route to the bed only to take the radio from the end table and attempt to tune it. He cycles through more static, a station that plays only top 40 hits, a station dedicated to oldies that is almost passable, and then -- 

“.._ .is Anthony J. Crowley _ , _ answering all -- _”

He drops the radio. In doing so, he accidentally cycles back several stations, and spends the next couple of seconds frantically fumbling with the dial. When he does, Crowley’s voice fills the room. 

_ Anthony _, is all Aziraphale can think. He turns the volume down low, masking it from any prying ears, and settles heavily onto the bed. 

Crowley’s voice washes over him, his distinctive cadence distorted by the low buzz of Aziraphale’s poor speakers, but still a comfort nonetheless. Crowley answers a few questions, tosses out a few snappy, sarcastic words of advice. Aziraphale isn’t sure that he processes any of the information at all, too busy soaking in the familiarity of Crowley’s voice. By the time it fades out, giving way to some screeching 1970s rock, a pleasant buzz has settled into Aziraphale’s chest. 

He reluctantly sets the radio aside, but finds himself too distracted to read, one word echoing around in his head: _ Anthony. _

* * *

It becomes a bit of a habit. 

Aziraphale knows Crowley’s schedule. It’s an erratic one, late to rise and late to return, punctuated with the occasional early mornings here and there. Over a handful of months of their friendship, and even further back into their rivalry, Aziraphale had gotten a sense for when Crowley was occupied, confirmed always by the comings and goings of a certain big, black car. 

Friday through Saturday, an incessant and chaotic mix of songs spanning decades warbles across the line. During the weekdays, however, Crowley’s sardonic drawl occupies the airwaves every evening at 10 PM. He occupies all manner of positions -- DJ, interviewer, advice columnist. Most of it is tongue in cheek, Aziraphale notices, peppered in with dry commentary on music, culture, and current events.

Aziraphale finds himself staying up a touch later than he usually would. He plays the station as he goes about his evening routine, or simply nestled in bed with a cup of tea or cocoa. 

Occasionally, Crowley will pepper in an anecdote. He’s an excellent storyteller, and for all his pomp and bluster, his vague and elusive ways, one thing is clear: Crowley likes people. 

He lies about it, when pushed, but Aziraphale had noticed it already. The quiet way he thrives in the hustle and bustle of London, the natural curiosity sparked from the world around him, the easy banter with all sorts of people. Aziraphale supposes it’s a shame he would be way out in the suburbs instead of amidst the energy of the city. The thought is met with a twinge of guilt; selfishly, Aziraphale is happy to have Crowley nearby. 

Aziraphale doesn’t mention his discovery. 

He doesn’t know why, exactly, but over the next couple of weeks, the lunch and dinner dates masquerading as planning sessions, he just… doesn’t mention it. He assumes, as he always has, that if Crowley wants him to know, he will simply tell him. Aziraphale is patient. He can wait. 

That is, until one day, when they are sitting at a little Greek restaurant in early September, the baking heat of the cafe a sharp contrast to the crisp autumn day gusting by outside, when Aziraphale, laughing over a plate of dolmas, says, “Anthony --” 

Crowley’s eyebrow arches over his glasses. His spine straightens. 

“--Crowley,” Aziraphale corrects himself, weakly. 

Crowley takes a slow drink of his coffee. It’s prepared in the Turkish style, sediment and liquid poured thickly together from the ibrik, and its rich aroma curls in the air. The sip Crowley pulls from the small cup is torturously slow. 

“Been reading my mail, angel?”

The gyro on Aziraphale’s plate (nearly untouched, a testament to the quality of the company) is, all of a sudden, quite interesting. Aziraphale busies himself with drizzling tzatziki sauce over it in smooth, deliberate swirls. “Not necessarily,” he hedges, at length. 

Crowley pushes his sunglasses up, and Aziraphale breaks. 

“It was -- I didn’t _ mean _to,” Aziraphale says. “It was just, you know. On.” 

“On?”

“Yes, your… your show.” 

The slouch returns. As does the familiar, cheeky hint of a grin. 

“Listen, did you?”

“Yes, it was quite an accident. I didn’t -- you’re not upset?”

Crowley studies Aziraphale, just long enough that Aziraphale gets the sense that, rather than being upset, Crowley simply likes to see him sweat. Aziraphale supposes he feels the same, albeit in a different way. 

“All of bloody London can hear it, if they stay up late enough,” says Crowley with a shrug. “Not like I was hiding it.”

“You weren’t? But -- well, you never _ mentioned _it.”

“You never asked.”

Aziraphale certainly hadn’t. He adjusts his cutlery, more for something to do with his hands than anything, before saying, “I wasn’t certain that whatever you did was something you would want me to know.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows draw upward. The effect is almost comedic. 

“That is, I wasn’t certain that it was all, you know. Above board.” 

“What did you _ think _I was doing?” Crowley waggles his eyebrows. He leans forward on the table, chin balanced in the palm of one hand, and Aziraphale flushes in embarrassment. He forces himself to lean back. He would like to lean in. 

“Well, I didn’t _ know, _ ” Aziraphale defends himself. “You keep the strangest hours. And besides, how does a _ radio show host _ afford a _ Bentley _?”

“Frugality and thriftiness?”

It is Aziraphale’s turn to arch an exasperated eyebrow. 

“I told you,” Crowley says, noncommittally. “I freelance.” 

“Which is code for…?”

“Certainly not black market smuggling,” Crowley says. He turns his head to peer out the window, watching the grey rush of London outside. “Some writing here, presenting there.” It has started to drizzle, Aziraphale notices. Everytime the door is thrown open, it drags with it the smell of petrichor. Lovely weather. Perfect for a cup of tea and a nice book. 

Silence lapses between the two of them. Aziraphale is so caught up in the fantasy of returning home with a good book in hand that he nearly misses it when Crowley says, “I used to be a lawyer.” 

His timing is impeccable; it comes just as Aziraphale has lifted his glass of water to his lips. He nearly douses the whole table with it. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Aziraphale’s disbelief must be written all over his face, because Crowley’s serene expression cracks into a wicked smirk, and he says, “You flatter me, angel, you really do.”

“No, it’s not -- I didn’t mean -- it’s just --”

It’s just that, looking at Crowley, Aziraphale can’t imagine it. Crowley dresses well, certainly, clean and black and with care, but Aziraphale is pretty sure that the only time he’s seen him in something other than women’s jeans was at the theater. He looks good, in a devil may care, washed up rockstar kind of way. Aziraphale’s mind simply can not fathom the idea of him in an office of any sort. 

He can certainly imagine, though, Crowley in a well cut suit, hair slicked back, gesticulating wildly at the front of a courtroom with the kind of Hollywood flare for dramatics that he already knows Crowley to be capable of. 

“It’s just surprising,” Aziraphale finally settles on, before he can further embarrass himself. Or allow that fantasy to continue. “It sounds… exciting.” 

That draws a scoff out of Crowley. “Corporate law,” he drawls. He leans over the table and spears one of Aziraphale’s dolmas with his own fork. “Thrilling, absolutely.” 

“Can’t be much worse than accounting,” Aziraphale mutters. 

“It was,” Crowley says drily. “Spectacularly, soul shatteringly, mind numbingly _ boring. _So I quit.” 

“Just… like that?” 

“Yep.” The _ p _comes out with a decisive snap. “Bit of a family practice -- did it for a while, hated every second of it. Up and sold my flat, left the city, got a quaint little place in the suburbs.” 

“That hardly seems any more exciting, if you ask me.” 

Crowley studies him. Ever restless, even in his quiet moments, he silently rotates his thimble of a coffee cup in his hand before saying, “Yes, well. It wasn’t.” A beat passes. “Not at first, at least.” 

The words settle in the air between the two of them. Underneath the table, Aziraphale worries the fabric of his trousers between his fingers, unsure of how to respond. This is how it goes, he supposes -- Crowley, giving him the space to reach for... _ something _. Aziraphale, too afraid to do so. 

As usual, it’s Crowley who breaks the tension himself. Leans back, throwing one casual arm around the back of his chair, and looks out the window again. “I suppose I miss living in the city, though.” The fingers of his left hand drum at the edge of the table, tip-toeing ever closer to his sunglasses. Aziraphale briefly entertains the idea of smacking them to the ground, like a cat. 

“Would you ever go back?”

Crowley simply shrugs. Aziraphale studies his profile, for a moment -- the sharp line of his nose, the soft curl of his hair against his neck. “To the city? Maybe.” 

“And the job?”

That earns Aziraphale a derisive snort. “No,” Crowley says with finality. His fingers have found his sunglasses again, and he twirls them by one of the arms. “I don’t stick around for things I don’t like, angel. Got to live for yourself at some point, y’know?”

And with that, he slips the sunglasses back on. 

After lunch, Aziraphale allows Crowley to drive him to the office, though he still requires that Crowley drop him off just down the block. Just before Aziraphale can disappear into the post-lunch swarm of suits and heels, he turns back to the car, and hedges: “Do you…mind if I still listen?”

“Hm?”

“You know. To your show.” 

Crowley shrugs. “Not exactly your type of music, is it?”

“No,” Aziraphale agrees. And then, courtesy of a sudden swell of courage, he says, “But it’s not the music I’m listening for.” 

* * *

The music is, in truth, a bit of a racket, and yet it becomes a part of Aziraphale’s evening routine. He becomes familiar enough with some of the songs to hum along. Occasionally he recognizes a song or two as part of the party playlist that Crowley’s roommates seem to adopt on the weekends. The promise of hearing Crowley’s drawl just around the corner is the only thing that keeps him from tossing the radio out the window during those instances. 

One evening, he has just settled into bed when a man calls in, drunk on love and alcohol alike, and completely heartbroken. Crowley talks a couple of rings around him, the kind of circular advice that only seems to leave the poor man more at a loss than he had been before. Crowley ends the encounter with, “_ This one goes out to all of us love-struck idiots out there, I suppose, _” and follows it up with Queen’s “Somebody to Love.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think about that, but think about that he does -- until nearly three in the morning, when he finally succumbs to sleep. 

When he stares at the bags pooling under his eyes the next morning, the sound of Gabriel’s feet against the treadmill beating from down the hall, he supposes that it’s fitting. There’s nothing new about his neighbor keeping him up all night, after all. 

(Try as he might to banish the thought, Aziraphale thinks that there are certainly better ways to keep one up all night, though.) 

* * *

“Have you tried just asking him to leave?”

Aziraphale shoots Crowley the kind of glare that could freeze magma, and Crowley throws his hands up in defense. In doing so, he manages a shower of birdseed through the air. The effect is nearly instantaneous; the pigeons in St. Johns, who fear neither God, man, nor tourist, swarm immediately. Aziraphale wonders what a nice coat of birdseed might do to one’s backyard, or roof, or even automobile. He files that thought into the back of his mind, into the ever growing database of pranks bordering on psychological warfare that he has amassed in the last few months. 

They have eschewed a traditional lunch for the Russian roulette of a food truck (because Crowley likes to live on the edge and Aziraphale simply likes Crowley) and a walk through the park. The path they meander down is a veritable obstacle course of tourists and bird droppings, and Aziraphale isn’t sure which is worse, but it’s a surprisingly dry autumn day, and he appreciates the chance to see the changing shades of leaves. Even as he glares Crowley down, Aziraphale can’t help but notice how the red of his companion’s hair matches the falling leaves of the beech tree behind him. 

“That would be rude,” Aziraphale says primly, which prompts a knowing grin from Crowley. 

“And you couldn’t possibly, of course,” he says, and Aziraphale simultaneously dreads and delights in the fact that Crowely knows him so well. Crowley scatters a shower of birdseed from his open palm, angling suspiciously closer to a young couple picnicking on the grass than the pond. “But hasn’t he, y’know. Overstayed his welcome?”

Wordlessly, Aziraphale snakes his arm in front of Crowley, slipping his hand into the bag of birdseed cupped in his palm. His hand brushes Crowley’s opposite hand as he withdraws it from the bag. It’s cold, as always. And as always, Aziraphale resists the urge to press Crowley’s digits between his own. 

Aziraphale sprinkles the birdseed in thought. If it happens to drift closer toward the couple -- well, perhaps it was the wind. Besides, young love is sweet and all, but Aziraphale can’t find himself thinking that certain displays of affection are probably better done at home than in front of half of the duck population of London. 

“I’ve made a commitment,” Aziraphale says. “Not all of us can simply… walk away from what we don’t like.” 

“I don’t see why not,” Crowley says. His tone carries the kind of affected cheerfulness he takes to the radio, though Aziraphale is too absorbed in watching a bird cross the threshold of the young couple’s blanket to notice. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Aziraphale says absentmindedly. His gaze drops to his watch, and he misses the way Crowley’s eyebrow quirks at that. “The renovation will be done soon enough, though, and then we can all go back to…” 

Aziraphale pauses. He isn’t quite sure _ what _they will go back to, once it’s all said and done. Perhaps that’s why Aziraphale has yet to go into a meltdown and cast Gabriel’s exercise ball, fruit dehydrator, and countertop tray of alfalfa onto the lawn. As loathe as he is to say it, Aziraphale is willing to weather all kinds of quinoa experiments and mortifying yoga attempts for an excuse to catch lunch with Crowley once a week. 

“Tormenting each other in peace?”

Aziraphale beams. “Precisely.” 

When it’s time to head out, Crowley cocks an eyebrow over his glasses and says, “Lift back?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, “But drop me off round the corner.” 

* * *

Aziraphale is carefully jumping between two documents when Anathema materializes at his elbow. One of the documents is a briefing for a potential client, the other one contains phrases such as “rope -- 20 meters” and “shaving cream” and “dry ice”. Aziraphale, of course, minimizes the wrong page. 

“I’m certain I’ve said this before, my dear, but if you could give some _ warning --” _

“I don’t care about your weird dates --”

“-- Oh, I think you have _ quite _the wrong idea --”

“-- I need to talk to you.” Behind her enormous glasses, her eyes dart around. In a shirt dripping with lace and a skirt that brushes her ankles, she looks more ready to conduct a seance than plug in schedules for one of London’s top finance companies. 

“If this is about the invitation --”

“--it’s not about the invitation,” Anathema snaps. And then she adds, “But it wouldn’t hurt if you replied soon. It’s about work.” 

Aziraphale swivels to face her, hands folded in his lap expectantly. 

“Not here,” she says. “The walls have ears.” With the amount of money the firm pumped into security, Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised of that. He lets out a sigh, collapses the window in front of him, and says, “Fine.” His eyes dart toward his watch. “I’m happy to listen, but --”

“-- but you’ve got a date for lunch, yeah, yeah,” Anathema says. She jerks her head and says, “Come on.” 

The two make an elaborate, meandering path across the office. Anathema, who has the kind of efficiency that is punished in a bureaucracy and has therefore learned how to make a show of darting through red tape without getting tangled up in it, is quite good at this; she has a stack of papers in one hand that she discusses with Aziraphale as they walk. After a series of elaborate excuses, they find their way out of the office and into the elevators under the guise of collecting a package from the lobby. 

As soon as they get into the elevator, Anathema presses every single button. The repetitive ding of the elevator button as they make their way down eighteen floors is excruciating. 

“It’s about Gabriel,” Anathema says. 

_ DING! _

“Excellent,” says Aziraphale, brightening immediately. “Have the renovations finished?”

“That’s --” 

_ DING! _

A stern looking woman in a navy pantsuit enters the elevator. Anathema’s jaw clamps shut. The woman gives little attention to the pair, aside from a disapproving look at Anathema’s choice of dress. Still, Aziraphale and Anathema say nothing, and the elevator fills with the tap of her fake nails against her mobile phone until, two floors down, she exits the elevator. 

Anathema hits a couple of the buttons again for good measure. 

“Really, you are going to get us trapped --” 

“-- Gabriel’s getting fired.”

The smile has yet to fall from Aziraphale’s face. “I’m sorry?” he asks, cheerfully, because he is certain that Anathema did _ not _just say -- 

_ DING! _

“Gabriel’s getting fired.” It sounds even worse the second time. Anathema worries the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. “I overheard it, at the last board meeting. I was bringing Michael a coffee, and -- it was -- you know how the last couple of quarters have been,” Anathema says. 

Aziraphale swallows. He certainly does. There had been talk -- well, there is _ always _ talk in this kind of business, especially when numbers are low and investment is limited, but normally it just involves a bit of, well. Shuffling. A seminar or two, management shaking it up here and there, but as long as the numbers even out, things tend to be okay, in the short term. Anathema unfurls the entire story of Gabriel’s downfall, his attempt at pouring his own assets into the firm, bankruptcy. Her horror story is punctuated by the excruciating _ DING! _of the elevator door or paused by the occasional entrance of some poor soul or another. 

Aziraphale finds his heart sinking much faster than their stuttering lift. On the ninth floor, Aziraphale’s heartbroken glare is enough to make a man who towers over him turn and take the stairs. 

So, Gabriel is being fired. Ousted by the board of directors after one of Empyrean Associates worst years on the books. At one point in time, this might have made Aziraphale jump with glee. 

“And his house?” Aziraphale hedges. “His renovation?”

Anathema turns her large, sad eyes on him. “I don’t think there is one, Aziraphale.” 

A final, harsh _ DING! _resounds through the lift, and the doors open into the lobby. Quite fittingly, Aziraphale notices, it’s raining. And when he glances down at his watch, he realizes that he is late for lunch. 

* * *

“Caught in the biblical flood, were you?”

“What? Oh.” Aziraphale looks down. He supposes it’s a miracle that he had been allowed into the little Italian hole in the wall they’ve selected for today’s rendezvous. Outside, it’s as if the heavens have opened up. A typical October day for London, but in his hurry, Aziraphale has forgotten an umbrella. He runs a hand through his wet hair and gives an empty laugh. “

Perhaps unsurprisingly at this point, Crowley has ordered for him. A steaming cup of tea sits before a warm plate of manicotti. They have been here before, Aziraphale remembers. Crowley had ordered risotto and a dish of panna cotta that ended up on Aziraphale’s side of the table by the time the meal was done.

Aziraphale sheds his jacket, allowing it to dry on the back of his chair. Across the table, Crowley unwinds the scarf from around his neck in a rather efficient method that certainly should _ not _be alluring, but Aziraphale finds himself distracted by the reveal of Crowley’s throat regardless. 

“Catch,” Crowley says, before tossing the scarf across the table. In an act of acrobatics that impresses even Aziraphale, he manages to catch the scrap of fabric at the last moment, before it can cause a catastrophic collision with his teacup. 

The scarf is soft in its hand. It’s a rich burgundy, one of the few colors Crowley is willing to trade for black. It suits him, Aziraphale thinks vaguely, just like the aubergine tie he wore last week, or the deep green button up he had worn the week before. 

“Crowley, I --” 

Crowley waves his concern away. “You need it more than I do, angel.” 

“It’s going to be ruined,” Aziraphale says, even as he slowly draws it around his neck. He can still feel the warmth from Crowley’s skin trapped in the fiber.

“Hang it to dry,” says Crowley with a shrug. He regards Aziraphale for a moment and says, simply, “Suits you.” 

It’s probably about the same color as his face, Aziraphale thinks, but what comes out of his mouth is a soft, “Oh -- why, thank you.” 

The tea is warm, which is really all Aziraphale can ask for right now, and the food is delicious, and the company exquisite. It all makes Aziraphale quite miserable. The conversation is light, and Aziraphale finds himself pushing his lunch around the plate, forcing himself to eat if only because it was Crowley who ordered for him. Guilt nibbles at him, and he supposes he ought to tell Crowley, if for no reason other than the fact that he tells Crowley _ everything _(or, nearly everything), but he is powerless to get the words out. 

He doesn’t want to know what Crowley will say. Or maybe he already knows what Crowley will say: that same spiel, the familiar topic that they toss back and forth and beat around the bush. _ Just quit. Just kick him out. Just take the plunge. Just -- _

_ Just do what would make you happy. _

Aziraphale doesn’t know what that is. Or, maybe, he’s too scared to find out. 

Something taps, light, against his shin, and Aziraphale nearly jumps out of his skin. A hand flies to his chest, inadvertently tangling in Crowley’s scarf. Crowley, he realizes him, has given a light kick under the table. 

“Back to earth now?” 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, and realizes he’s been spacing out. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, what was it you were saying?”

With a deft hand, Crowley pulls the sunglasses from his face. Aziraphale wonders if they get uncomfortable, on such a dark and dreary day, or if Crowley’s eyes are just that sensitive. Perhaps it’s selfish, but this is always his favorite part of their meal, when Crowley’s guard and sunglasses drop. 

“Are you alright?” A line of concern draws between Crowley’s eyebrows. 

“Perfect!” Aziraphale smooths his hands over the napkin that he’s laid out over his lap. “Perfectly....perfect.” 

“Uh huh,” Crowley says, eyebrow raised. His gaze darts down to Aziraphale’s plate. “Food alright?” 

“Oh, no, it’s -- it’s delicious, really,” Aziraphale assures him. He worries the fabric of the napkin between his fingers, considers his options and then says, “It’s just, you know, work. Just normal work things.” 

“Ah.” Crowley reclines against his chair, one hand lazily drumming against the table. “Michael again?”

“Oh, don’t even get me _ started.” _

And this -- this is familiar terrain. Aziraphale spills out an anecdote on work, Crowley works in a few dry replies, and then the conversation is off, oscillating from work stories to a concert that Crowley had attended for one of his reviews, or some new book that Aziraphale is hoping to pick up. They split a decadent tiramisu, all cream and biscuit, and the rich espresso drenching the cake reminds Aziraphale of Crowley. 

* * *

Aziraphale avoids Crowley. 

He certainly doesn’t mean to do so, but things are -- quite busy, after that, and suddenly a few days scroll by, and then a week. Gabriel is still as insufferable as ever, but Aziraphale, moved out of guilt at his own selfishness, makes more of an effort to play the respectable host. He allows Gabriel to drag him through American football matches that take _ years _off of his life. In the mornings, he willingly goes along with an excruciatingly embarrassing yoga regiment. He supposes the contortionism and the “breakfasts” Gabriel prepares have lost him a pound or two, but God, at what cost?

He and Crowley pass each other, much as they always have. Late nights for Crowley, early mornings for Aziraphale. Aziraphale listens to the radio show in the evenings, but when Crowley texts him, _ Lunch -- Thursday? _ and then, a few days later, _ We need to talk, _ Aziraphale deflects. He’s swamped at work, he says, which he supposes is true -- Anathema has said that Gabriel’s dismissal should be announced in the coming weeks, and Aziraphale is trying to head off the shitshow _ that _ will certainly be. According to Anathema, the board is considering _ Sandalphon _, of all people, to head the office in the interim, and Aziraphale wonders if that won’t be the final piece that pushes him over the ledge. 

So he postpones. And he postpones again. And again. 

His guilty conscience tells him it’s the right thing to do. Crowley draws out a side of Aziraphale that he himself is not quite familiar with -- one that is fun, an adventurous Aziraphale who takes risks and tries new things. That side of Aziraphale is also petty. He supposes that try as he might, he can’t quite blame Crowley for this side of himself -- but Crowley condones it. Revels in it, really, if that small smirk that gathers in the corner of his mouth whenever Aziraphale catches himself in a swear, or conjures up some elaborate new prank, is anything to go by. 

Even worse, that side of Aziraphale is _ selfish. _It’s difficult, around Crowley, to ignore the enormity of his want. 

He likes to think that if he told Crowley the situation, spilled out his charity case with Gabriel, Crowley might understand. For all his posturing, Crowley is quite a good person -- Aziraphale hears it in his voice on the radio each evening, the way he coaxes stories and confessions out of his callers, or the easy conversation he floats toward the staff in whatever restaurant they find themselves in for their many not-dates. Crowley approaches those around him with curiosity, certainly, but more than that, with _ compassion. _

Which is why Aziraphale knows that if Crowley laid the situation out, explained that he couldn’t possibly leave Gabriel out in the rain, couldn’t leave him hanging alone and unhappy, Crowley would say -- 

_ But what about you, angel? _

And Aziraphale wouldn’t have a good answer for that. 

* * *

He finds it in a pile of his own post. 

It’s a thick manila envelope, pushed through the mail slot with a jumble of other envelopes. Aziraphale doesn’t even realize it isn’t his until he has a letter opener in hand, habitually slicing open each envelope as he waits for the oven to go off. The envelope yields a thin packet, a contract, and Aziraphale is befuddled until he sees the name on the front -- _ Anthony J. Crowley. _

_ Ah, _ thinks Aziraphale, resisting the urge to run his thumb over the name. _ Anthony. _The postal worker on this route never can get their mail sorted. Aziraphale supposes he can’t blame them -- had he a choice between doing a shoddy job and willingly approaching the biohazard of a residence next door, Aziraphale thinks he himself would probably just drop it a reasonable distance from the door and pray for the best. 

When he sees the name of the sender, he freezes. 

It’s a property management company, the name of the firm sitting firmly atop a London address. 

Aziraphale sets the packet down. He slides it back into the manila envelope and pushes it to the edge of the counter. He spends a few moments tidying the already immaculate kitchen. Sprinkles water over the pan of _ whatever _that Gabriel is growing on the counter. Washes the teacup and spoon sitting in the sink. 

His gaze keeps darting back toward the envelope. 

Aziraphale wrings his hands. 

He really shouldn’t. 

And he doesn’t. For twenty seven minutes, he doesn’t. He pushes the envelope to the back of his mind the way he had pushed it deeper into the pile of his own mail, and forgets about it while he goes about his evening routine. 

Just before the timer goes off for his biscuits, he crumples. He nearly lunges across the kitchen in his haste to pull open the envelope, to lay bare the evidence that he knows lurks behind that bland, brown envelope. The rational part of his brain unhelpfully informs him that what he is doing is technically illegal, but Aziraphale has long abandoned that part of his brain. Perhaps it happened months ago, over a cigarette with a strange neighbor. 

He flips through the papers primly, eyes skating over the fine print, as if by not reading the entire thing he might obtain some form of plausible deniability. Even from the first few pages, he has seen enough. 

A housing contract. Addressed to Anthony J. Crowley. Contained in the envelope are also glossy photographs of the property, a highrise in Mayfair comprised of dark lines and hard surfaces. At first glance, it’s all very Crowley. 

Aziraphale doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing with the documents in hand until the fire alarm goes off. Cursing to himself, he slips the papers back into the envelope, and then spends the rest of the evening fanning smoke out of his kitchen and mourning his burnt biscuits. 

* * *

For the first time in what seems like weeks, Aziraphale’s neighbors are throwing a party. 

A deafening roar of music bleeds across the lawn, through Aziraphale’s walls. There is some kind of lightshow taking place in the garden behind the house. The pillow that Aziraphale has jammed over his head does little to help shut it out. The pair of earplugs and the sleep mask he had purchased shortly after cementing the Arrangement aren’t much help, either. 

Aziraphale rolls around in bed for a moment or two. He glances at his mobile phone. A sleep addled flash of irritation tears through him when he doesn’t see any kind of warning from Crowley on the screen. When his exploits tended towards the truly obnoxious, Crowley made it a point to send an apology his way. Often accompanied by an entreaty to lunch or dinner or a stroll through the park sometime later in the week, to make up for it. 

There is no such invitation here. Aziraphale frowns, and briefly wonders if maybe Crowley simply isn’t home for the occasion, but a brief trek to the window assures him it is quite the opposite. The Bentley is parked round front. Well, technically, it is parked just down the street, to minimize a collision with one of the many other cars sandwiched together out front of Crowley’s hellhole, but it is certainly still there. 

The last few interactions between them had come from Crowley -- a diabolical plan involving shaving cream followed by an invitation to lunch, which Aziraphale had smoothly deflected, and then an invitation to dinner, which Aziraphale had less smoothly deflected. Guilt gnaws at Aziraphale. He sets his phone aside and crawls back into bed. 

Eventually, exhaustion wins over guilt. Aziraphale sends a quick text message, a harmless, _ If you would be so kind as to turn the music down, dear… _ and then rolls over in bed. 

If anything, the music gets _ louder. _Aziraphale might have thought it was pouring from his own living room; hard rock gives way to inane pop, the entire array seemingly engineered to drive Aziraphale out of his mind. Guilt eventually gives way to pride, too, and Aziraphale finds himself throwing on a robe and charging out of his bedroom. 

Gabriel has also been roused by the racket; Aziraphale notices his bedroom door opening as he charges down the hall. Before it is even eased open, Aziraphale leans forward, grasps the knob, and pulls it back shut without a word. 

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale mutters to himself when he sees the state of Crowley’s house. 

The sounds coming from Crowley’s back yard are more akin to a music festival than a garden party, and the dress of the few people who have staggered out to the front yard suggest as much. Someone is sitting on the sidewalk smoking marijuana, thick clouds of it rolling in the night air. A couple is nearly fornicating on the front lawn, and Aziraphale has to resist the impulse to take the plant mister he knows Crowley keeps on the landing and douse them with it. Instead, he sets his shoulders back and holds his head high, primly avoiding meeting the gaze of anyone as he passes. Someone wolf whistles at him as he passes, but otherwise the partygoers strewn about the front lawn are more than happy to remain to their own devices. 

Aziraphale hammers on the door without a second thought. It takes a while for anyone to open it; he supposes it would be a miracle for anyone within the house to hear it within the first place. 

Eventually, the door swings open, and Aziraphale is face to face with the same short person who had answered the door the first time. The hunting cap has been swapped out for one that resembles, of all things, a fly. The eyes on the hat are mirrored, and Aziraphale can see his own distorted form staring back at him. 

“Oh, what the Hell,” the person mutters, and immediately begins to close the door. 

Aziraphale’s hand shoots out. “Oh -- um, good evening,” he says, in a steely tone barbed with politeness. “Would Mister, ah, Crowley happen to be in at the moment?”

They roll their eyes, but lean backwards into the house, and holler, “_ Mister _Crowley.” When it yields no results, the person scowls, mutters, “Stay here,” and then disappears into the depths of the house, the door still hanging half open. 

In the most subtle way he can manage, Aziraphale uses his foot to nudge the door open further. He is quite surprised at the glimpse of the foyer he gets. It’s much cleaner, much more aesthetically pleasing than he had anticipated. Sure, there is a coat rack that testifies to the sheer number of people in the house, piled comically high with coats and jackets and threatening to snap at any moment, and its base is littered with shoes of all styles and sizes. Other than that, it’s surprisingly clean. Unlike his own house, the walls have been painted in a dark, dull brown, a pleasant backdrop for a series of neatly framed art prints. It’s all abstract and modern, which Aziraphale has never quite enjoyed, but it seems to suit the place. 

Aziraphale wonders what the rest of the house looks like. How much of it is Crowley, and how much of it is his roommates. He wonders what Crowley’s bedroom looks like. 

“Get a nice peak?”

Aziraphale jolts back. He realizes, as Crowley pulls the door back even further, that he had leaned forward, squinting at the uneven lines of one of the artworks. Forcing his shoulders upright, Aziraphale takes a step back and studies Crowley, thinking how similar this all is to the night they met. 

He is wearing a shirt this time, at least. Aziraphale doesn’t know how he feels about that. Crowley has neglected to button it up all the way, so the shirt cuts into a deep V that, unfortunately, only guides Aziraphale’s gaze (and thoughts) further down. His snake (Mercury, as Aziraphale knows she is called, from a conversation months back) is not worn like an accessory this time, but has been replaced by a dark green feather boa. A glass of red wine, barely touched, is nestled between Crowley’s fingers. Despite the late hour, his sunglasses are still on. 

“Oh, er -- I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. The wine looks good. So does Crowley. 

Crowley shrugs. He leans against the door in that loose way of his, as if somewhere down the line he had realized that having a spine wasn’t exactly his style. Aziraphale finds it more charming than it should be. Observing Crowley like this, the familiar, lazy way that he swirls the glass of wine between his fingers or the way the evening breeze ruffles his hair, Aziraphale is struck by how much he has missed Crowley over the last week or two, since contact had dwindled. 

“I’d offer to give you the whole tour,” Crowley says conversationally, and Aziraphale wonders how much he has had to drink this evening, “but I think Chernobyl would be more scenic, so. I’ll spare you.” 

“That’s… very kind of you,” Aziraphale hedges, even though he knows that there’s a part of him that would follow Crowley to his bedroom in a heartbeat. Or even a couch. “Look, Crowley, I --”

“Oi!” Crowley cuts him off, head tilted to the side. “Here -- hold this,” he says, passing the glass of wine to Aziraphale. He leans down and scoops up the plant mister and, with none of the compunctions that had kept Aziraphale from doing so, squirts a fine stream of water at the couple on the grass. “Enough of that -- yes, you. Jesus Christ.” The last part he mutters to himself as the couple scrambles to stand up. Crowley saunters down the stairs and Aziraphale follows, inconspicuously sipping on the wine as he goes. Crowley’s taste is impeccable as always, Aziraphale thinks, as he watches the Crowley administer the same plant misting treatment to the young man smoking marijuana on the kerb. 

“Like animals, I swear,” Crowley mutters, watching the young man scuttle back toward the house. 

“Quite,” Aziraphale says distractedly. He passes the glass back to Crowley, who smirks when he notices that a third of the contents have been drained, but says nothing. “You could have _ warned _ me, you know. About all of _ this. _”

“For what? So you could join the party?” Crowley gives a vague motion back toward Aziraphale’s house. “Make sure your lawn mower is filled?” 

His tone is light, but something about it puts Aziraphale on edge. Even with his sunglasses on, Aziraphale can tell the smile on Crowley’s face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Crowley fiddles with the feather boa around his neck. Though clear, it’s a chilly September night. It won’t be too long before Aziraphale will be able to see his breath in the air, he is sure. He remembers, suddenly, how cold Crowley’s hands had been when they had first shaken on their agreement, and how Crowley seems to run just a little cold. 

Of course it’s cold, though: it’s nearly two in the morning, and Aziraphale longs for the warm cocoon of his blanket. For this reason, and perhaps also because his thoughts flash back to the manila envelope still sitting under a pile of other envelopes on his kitchen counter, Aziraphale’s tone comes out a bit testy when he says, “Well, you could have at least _ texted me back. _” 

Crowley’s eyebrows raise over his sunglasses. He doesn’t move to extract his phone from his back pocket, though. “Text me, did you?” He takes a long sip of the wine, and his lips come away tinted just the faintest red. “I didn’t realize we still did that.” 

There it is. Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath cuts through the night air. The music bursting from the other side of the house seems so far away, suddenly, and Aziraphale realizes that they are going to have to have the conversation that he has been both dreading and avoiding for weeks. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, but Crowely doesn’t let him get much further than that. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Crowley says, in a voice that indicates it is obviously Not Fine. He paces slowly, gesturing vaguely with the wine glass as he moves back and forth over the grass with an affected casualness to his gait that Aziraphale knows belies his true anxiety. “I can take a hint, angel.” 

“It’s not --” 

In his distress, Crowley appears to have forgotten the usual self consciousness surrounding his eyes and their unique pupils. He pushes the sunglasses up, settling them on top of his head, and peers at Aziraphale with a clear, lucid gaze. Not drunk then. That almost makes the impending conversation worse. 

Crowley takes a step toward Aziraphale, and Aziraphale unconsciously takes a step back. The gesture makes Crowley freeze, and Aziraphale immediately regrets it. He steels himself for whatever is going to come next. He has never known Crowley to not speak his mind, and whether Crowley calls him a coward or a failure as a friend, Aziraphale is certain he’s likely earned it. 

It’s so much worse, though, when Crowley says, “Have I upset you?” 

For a moment, Aziraphale thinks he might have misheard. Crowley’s eyes are wide with concern. The hazel of them seem darker in the night. 

Before Aziraphale can get a word in, Crowley plows on. “Look, I don’t know what I said, but whatever it was -- I’m sure I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Okay? Look, I’m shit with apologies, but --” 

Aziraphale means to comfort Crowley. Every part of him wants to run a gentle hand through Crowley’s hair until he calms down, and to assure him that, no, if anything, Aziraphale himself is the one who has been an ass. He wants to apologize, and to ask Crowley to stay. 

He shocks the both of them by saying, gently, “We need to end this, Crowley.” 

“I -- what?” 

Crowley stares at him. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask Aziraphale what, exactly, _ this _is. Aziraphale isn’t certain he has an adequate answer to that. He repeats himself. “We need to end this. This… whole thing,” he gestures vaguely between the two houses. “It’s gotten out of hand, Crowley. Things are… complicated, with Gabriel.” 

About fifteen emotions pass over Crowley’s face, but the ones that he eventually settles on are shock and horror. 

“You -- and Gabriel -- are you two --”

“_ No, _” Aziraphale says firmly, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. He isn’t sure he understands this assumption of Crowley’s that he and someone like Gabriel might ever be in the same league, flattering as it is. It is also patently ridiculous; Gabriel has the personality and charm of a tax form. Besides, maybe if Crowley would take those stupid sunglasses off for more than two seconds at a time, he would realize that Aziraphale never looks at anyone else. 

“It’s nothing like.... _ that, _” Aziraphale says, shuddering. It does nothing to release the tension from the taut line of Crowley’s shoulders. Aziraphale spares a glance back at his own house, then pitches his voice slightly lower. “It’s about the renovation.” 

“The renovation,” Crowley repeats. 

“Yes, the renovation. Er. If there were one.” 

“Sorry?”

“There _ isn’t _much of a renovation. Or at least not anymore,” Aziraphale explains. He gathers his robe tighter around himself. “Gabriel is being dismissed. By the board of directors.”

Aziraphale supposes he should have expected the blank stare that Crowley fixes on him. “And?” 

“_ And _,” Aziraphale continues, voice tight. “And he is bankrupt. He’s losing everything.”

“And that’s your problem because…?”

“Crowley, he has nowhere to go.” 

“Back to America, perhaps? Or whichever planet he crash landed from?” 

Aziraphale fixes Crowley with a look. Crowley spreads his hands as if in surrender, and carries on with his earlier mission of abusing the muddy grass underfoot with his pacing. This from the man whose only compunction about walking across someone’s lawn was the damage it would do to his leather shoes. 

“You are being unreasonable,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t understand what it is to _ you. _” He motions to the house, and Crowley tilts his head to follow the motion. A plume of smoke has risen from behind the unit. Crowley either doesn’t care or doesn’t notice, because he says nothing about it. “Your roommates are leaving, after all. It worked.” 

Aziraphale is, once again, reminded of the manila envelope resting on his kitchen counter. Addressed to _ Anthony J. Crowley. _ Not _ Hastur L. Vista, _ not to one of the other million people sharing that residence.. _ Anthony. _

It’s hard to keep the acid from his tone, with the bold type of the tenant agreement flashing in his mind’s eye. 

Crowley sputters. He starts about seven different words before he finally gets a coherent one out, and says, incredulously. “_ You don’t understand -- _angel --” he spread his arms wide, “So, what -- you’re just going to live like this forever?”

“I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean,” says Aziraphale primly. 

“Oh, I’m _ sure _ you do,” Crowley quips back. He gesticulates wildly toward Aziraphale’s house, a flurry of loose limbs. “Do you actually _ like _\-- this?”

“Do I like what?”

“_ Any _of it!” Crowley pushes a hand through his hair. “Your job, or -- or Gabriel walking all over you. Can you actually be happy like this?”

And here it is. Aziraphale sets his shoulders, resisting the urge to flinch. The shower of _ what ifs, _ usually a gentle rain dappling a casual conversation over lunch, swells to a veritable downpour. As much as Aziraphale deflects, they’ve touched on it dozens of times already, and Aziraphale knows that Crowley is right. He should quit. He should find something he enjoys, or even more, he should _ commit _ \-- to something he enjoys, or to himself, or to this _ thing _that has slowly begun to bloom between him and Crowley. 

It’s quite easy to fail, or to fall. What Aziraphale is truly scared of, though he refuses to admit it, is to fly. 

He regards Crowley for a moment, his mind flashing back to the tenant agreement sitting half opened on top of his own counter. He makes it all seem so easy, so simple. 

_ I don’t stick around for things I don’t like, angel. _Isn’t that what Crowley had said?

“You should just --” 

“I should just… what?” Aziraphale interrupts curtly. If Crowley’s expression is any indication, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, Aziraphale’s tone has caught him off guard. “Leave?” 

“I mean --” 

“Just do whatever I want? Just take off?” Aziraphale plows through, guilt and agitation alike overtaking any sense of shame he might feel. “I’m not like that, Crowley. I’m not…” 

He doesn’t mean what comes out of his mouth next, but it’s out before he can say it. 

“I’m not like you.” 

It lands like a slap. Crowley takes a step back, as if he’s been physically struck. He spreads his arms, drops them, and then says, one challenging eyebrow arched, “Oh?” 

_ I’m not bold like you, _ Aziraphale could have said. _ I’m not brave. _

Instead, he snaps, “I don’t _ run away _ . I can’t just _ leave _when things are rough, I’m not -- not irresponsible.” He pushes the words, the hurt, out through clenched teeth. 

“Irresponsible?” Crowley echoes. “Is that what you call it? To live a life of your own? To --” 

“I know you’re moving.” The words come out in a rush, because Aziraphale doesn’t want to know what Crowley is going to say next. Because deep down, Aziraphale knows that Crowley is probably right -- but he can’t move beyond the frustration, and the betrayal, of that single fact. 

Crowley goes still. His back stiffens. A long moment of silence balloons between the two of them -- or at least, it _ would _balloon between the two of them, if someone wasn’t playing the Spice Girls in the backyard at an earth trembling volume. Just when Aziraphale thinks he might have well and truly rendered Crowley mute, Crowley manages to croak “How…?”

Aziraphale fidgets with the sleeves of his robe. “Well,” he says, “You know how the post is. Imprecise.” 

“Is that right?”

“It is,” he says. “_ Mayfair, _ Crowley? How does a radio announcer even afford -- nevermind,” Aziraphale cuts himself off before he can draw himself too far into a tangent. Instead, he wields his next sentence accusatory at Crowley. “How long have you been looking?”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise, a cross between a grunt and a croak. Aziraphale stares him down until he mumbles, “A couple of months.” 

“A _ couple of months.” _

“Look, I was going to tell you,” Crowley says. His hands clench and unclench. “I was just -- waiting for the right time.” 

“The right time,” Aziraphale repeats hollowly, aware that he has become quite the parrot this evening. “When, exactly, was the right time? When you started -- doing tours of the house, or loading the moving van?” 

“I don’t suppose I need a written permission slip to move, do I? Look, Aziraphale, This --” he waves toward his house, toward the raging party, the column of smoke behind the house that has only grown darker, and more pungent -- “was all supposed to be _ temporary. _I can’t just -- just hide out here for the rest of my life.” 

“So what was all this, then?” Aziraphale isn’t necessarily sure what _ this _refers to -- the strange tug-of-war they have wrenched back and forth as they terrorize their respective houseguests, through music, glitter bombs, spontaneous light shows, strategically placed grass seed, perhaps. Or maybe the tenuous friendship they have built, teetering so close to the edge of something else that Aziraphale is terrified to name it, lest it plunge over the precipice. “Have you just been laughing at me this entire time?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Crowley cuts in hastily. “It’s not like that, ang-- Aziraphale.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” 

Aziraphale’s words hang in the air between them. He crosses his arms over his chest. Resolute, waiting. 

After a few aborted starts and abrupt stops, Crowley manages to drag out, “I didn’t want things to change.” Like Aziraphale, he doesn’t define it. 

Something inside Aziraphale twists at that. Something small and hopeful, something that, if it isn’t tamped down, could soar. 

Aziraphale tamps it down. 

“Things are going to change, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft. “They already have.” 

A pained expression flashes across Crowley’s face. 

Aziraphale turns, and walks away. 

* * *

The next morning, for the first time in months, Aziraphale does not wake up at six in the morning on a Sunday. He does not immediately make his way to the garden, to terrorize the grass with a mower and the hedges with a string trimmer. Instead, he wakes up, disoriented and groggy from his late night, and catches the time flashing in red letters on the radio alarm. 

He freezes, thinking about all of the times that he has listened to Crowley’s voice on that same radio, and the events of the night before unravel in his mind. 

Aziraphale rolls over, and goes back to sleep. 

* * *

Three hours and just as many cups of tea later, he watches out the living room window until a big black Bentley pulls out of the driveway of the neighboring house. Aziraphale picks his way across the lawn, past patches of scorched grass and scattered glitter and general detritus from the night before. 

He slips a manila folder through the mail slot of the front door, no note attached. 

* * *

Life has a way of carrying on. It carries Aziraphale like it always has, through traffic jams on the M-25 on the way into work, and to lunches spent eating at his desk as he sifts through reports. The leaves have long since changed color, and are now being wrenched from branches by the rain, the remains of September washing away into October. 

In contrast to the gloom outside, punctuated here and there by flashes of red and gold leaves, Empyrean Associates is white as ever. The shiny, pale tile of the floor reflects the fluorescent lights overhead, the entire office flooded with a familiar, bleak light even in the dark autumn months. Aziraphale shudders to think of what the power bill looks like. He sits at his own desk, tabbing through a spreadsheet with one hand and mindlessly shoveling leftover pad thai into his mouth with the other hand. 

In that less than charming way of hers, Anathema drops herself into Michael’s chair with all the grace of a deer. After taking a bullet. Aziraphale flinches at the sound, and the gesture sends the contents of his chopsticks spiralling into his lap. He groans, scooping the noodles from his trousers and fixing Anathema with an icy stare. 

“Look at this -- I’ll never get the stain out.” 

“Sorry,” Anathema says. She doesn’t look it. 

“I’ve had these trousers for _ years _.” 

“I’ve noticed,” Anathema says. Aziraphale doesn’t catch the sarcasm in her voice, too busy blotting at the oil stain and flakes of red chilly left on his trousers. It seemed to grow under his careful ministrations. 

“No date?”

Aziraphale squawks, eyes flying from Anathema, to the take out carton balanced precariously on top of a folder. 

“I -- they are not -- well -- you see, things are just so _ busy -- _I mean, who could possibly have the time --” Aziraphale says in a rush. He thinks he has adjusted quite well to Crowley’s absence over the last couple of weeks. For the most part, he has saved quite a bit of money by trading their lunches out for home cooked meals. (Cooked, he supposes, is a subjective term in this case; excepting the occasional pad thai here and there, his lunches have mostly consisted of stomach-turning green smoothies and crumbling seed cakes, the extent of Gabriel’s culinary prowess.)

He has regained quite a bit of time, too. His workload is surprisingly manageable without a distraction in his life. It’s remarkable just how productive one can be when one suddenly has the time at lunch to draw up reports and manage projects. Evenings, too, seem to have freed themselves up, and if Aziraphale finds himself making his way to the office even earlier than usual, well… 

It’s a lot easier to not notice Crowley’s empty driveway, or the “For Rent” sign in his front yard, if Aziraphale leaves when it’s still dark out. 

“Huh,” Anathema says. She looks him up and down, one eyebrow arched. “Well, there’s still time.” 

Aziraphale suddenly remembers watching from the window of his bedroom as the contents of Crowley’s house had been emptied and loaded into a moving van. It had been, strangely, like watching the set of a movie being broken down and carted off, an endless array of boxes and eclectic furniture. One worker gingerly carrying a replica of the Mona Lisa, then two carting an immense terrarium between the two of them. A throne. A rather dubious statue of an angel and a demon writhing against one another. An objectively chic and most likely horribly uncomfortable backless sofa upholstered in supple, dark leather. A handful of street signs, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he wanted to know the origins of those. A curious number of wigs on styrofoam heads, one of which wore a wreath of golden laurels. Enough houseplants to fill a botanical garden. A roomba that had essentially wheeled itself out of the house, blaring Queen while movers tried to chase it down. A number of stacked traffic cones. A cardboard cutout of one of the Golden Girls.

After dismantling the junkyard of a house, the movers had slid the door to the back of the van shut. Crowley had loaded Mercury into the back of the Bentley in a travel carrier more fit for a cat than a python and taken off without a backwards glance. 

No, Aziraphale does not think there is still time. 

“I don’t see why it much matters to you, anyway,” says Aziraphale wretchedly. He closes his takeout box, appetite suddenly gone. 

“We have to figure out the seating at some point.”

Aziraphale stares at her blankly. 

“For the wedding?” 

The wedding. 

Aziraphale remembers, suddenly, a pale blue envelope, passed from Crowley’s hand to his after one of their postal mix-ups. The invitation had been both earthy and elegant, decorated in a botanical theme. The enclosed RSVP card had come with a note from Anathema, just underneath the box inquiring whether or not he would bring a plus-one. _ BRING YOUR FRIEND! _It had said, in her elaborate, archaic scrawl. 

Aziraphale had simply checked the box for himself, and his desired entree, and sent it back. 

“Oh, yes, er --” 

“Don’t worry,” Anathema says conspiratorially. “I’ll leave an extra chair open.” 

“I don’t think --”

“Oh, there’s Michael.” Anathema vaults herself out of the chair with the same poise she had poured herself into it, shakes a folder at Aziraphale, and says, “Good luck with the stain.” 

She darts away, leaving Aziraphale alone with his thoughts, his spreadsheets, and the stain on his trousers. 

* * *

Crowley and his roomates, Aziraphale realizes, had nothing on the steady stream of viewers that a rather perky real estate agent keeps trailing into the house next door. 

Aziraphale doesn’t really have to put up with them, due to work, but occasionally he’ll happen upon them while running out to fetch the post, or while caring for his lawn -- something he has finally taken to, now that Crowley is gone and Aziraphale has months of self-inflicted damage to make up for. 

There had been a rather senile and possibly delusional old man with a Northern accent, which he used to call Aziraphale a number of colorful slurs before being guided away by the real estate agent. Another had been a self styled psychic who had slipped Aziraphale a business card advertising an array of services that had turned Aziraphale’s ears red. A group of motorcyclists that Aziraphale is certain must have been affiliated with some sort of a gang. A gaggle of loudmouthed nuns, who Aziraphale is also certain must have been affiliated with some sort of a gang. 

And families -- all number of families, whose rosy cheeked children make Aziraphale smile until they begin to shriek at the top of their lungs. 

The worst of them all is a track-suited couple that spend nearly forty five minutes discussing the benefits of lemon water cleanses and Finnish saunas with Gabriel, and Aziraphale thinks that he is willing to take any resort short of physical violence to prevent them from signing the lease. He thinks that loudly proclaiming how happy he is to see the house is getting sold after the _ terrible _incident with the methamphetamine lab and the previous tenants might have done the trick. 

The house sells in a little over a month, as September slips into October. It goes to a nice young couple and their son Adam, a cherubic young child with a halo of golden curls who, despite his sweet exterior, will soon become the bane of the entire neighborhood. 

* * *

There is something, Aziraphale muses, particularly sad about seeing Gabriel with The Box. 

Perhaps it’s the time of year. Christmas is just around the corner, after all. Though the office has been decorated for the occasion, it is little more colorful than it usually is. An enormous fake Christmas tree towers in the office, snow white and dripping with silver and gold ornaments and lights. Matching wreaths adorn the wall. The only splash of color -- if one could call it that -- are the grey stockings dotting the walls. The effect is a bit eerie. Christmas decor designed by a sociopath, minimalist and chic but bleached of all joy. Anathema has begun to retaliate by slowly slipping gaudy Christmas decor into unexpected places around the office. 

Gabriel is standing in front of the Christmas tree, The Box in his hands. The exercise ball that he has deluded himself into using as a chair, the only belonging of his that will not fit in The Box, sits at his side. With years worth of company loyalty bundled into The Box, Gabriel has been allowed to say a final goodbye to the rest of the staff, most of whom are staring at him blankly from their desks. 

Gabriel is halfway through a longwinded sports metaphor that Aziraphale doesn’t quite understand, even with Anathema’s muttered translation at his side. Aziraphale figures it is supposed to be some kind of rallying cry to his colleagues to stay optimistic and express Gabriel’s gratitude for the years he has spent at the office. Mostly, it’s just kind of sad. 

“And remember,” Gabriel says, looking around the room and trying to make meaningful eye contact with anyone who will throw him a bone, “it isn’t about winning the _ game. _ It’s about winning the _ season _.” 

A half hearted applause is scattered around the room, punctuated here and there with an even more pronounced cough or two. The exercise ball decides to make a break for it; it rolls slowly across the room like a tumbleweed drifting through a barren desert. 

Eventually, it bobs against Uriel’s desk. They look at it for a moment, and then give it a cautious, half hearted kick. 

It rolls back across the room and bumps against Gabriel’s leg. He puts one foot up on it, holding it in place. Another cough echoes through the silent room. 

“Well, isn’t that lovely,” says Michael, drifting across the room with her perennial, disingenuine smile plastered onto her face. She moves her arm as if to rest a hand against Gabriel’s arm, thinks the better of it, and clasps her hands together. “Thank you very much, Gabriel, for that moving, ah -- thank you, Gabriel. On behalf of our chief executive officer, who could unfortunately not make it here today--”

(The CEO was a very busy woman; she could not make it in today, of course, just like she had been unable to make it in at any point over the many years that Aziraphale has worked for Empyrean Associates. He _ thinks _ that he might have seen her just once, briefly, shortly around his initial hiring, a single hand extended through the office door to accept a coffee from an intern. At this point, Aziraphale isn’t certain if the financing firm _ has _a CEO, or if she is some kind of mythical amalgamation created as a figurehead for middle management.) 

“-- I would like to thank you for your experience with Empyrean Associates. As sad as we are to see you go,” Michael says, in a voice dry enough to sand wood, “we must continue on. Climb every mountain, as our chief executive officer says. Therefore, it is with great pleasure that I introduce our future Branch Director.” 

Michael pauses. Aziraphale doubts its for excitement so much as it is for some kind of sadistic pleasure that she might find in watching everyone squirm; as a boss, Gabriel may not have been.... ideal, but he had certainly been tolerable. More so for those who don’t _ live _with him, Aziraphale assumes. He isn’t sure he can assume the same of the rest of his colleagues. 

He shares a terrified look with Anathema, then glances around the room. Uriel is the kind of hypercompetent, hyper aware worker who would have the office on the kind of regimented schedule befitting a military unit, and Aziraphale didn’t fancy having to ask for a pass to run to the water closet. Michael herself is a nightmare; a master of the art of condescension, she has a suspicious of way of being able to make even the sweetest and most syrupy of platitudes sound like a heartfelt “Fuck you.” And Aziraphale would probably wrench out his own teeth if it were -- 

“Mr. Sandalphon, if you would like to say a few words?”

_ Oh, fuck. _

The same half hearted applause plays across the room as Sandalphon stands and crosses to the front of the office, a smarmy smile spreading across his face. 

The room quiets substantially, however, when Aziraphale stands.

He has hardly realized what he has done until he is already on his feet, a couple dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him in confusion. 

“Er,” says Aziraphale, as eloquently as he can muster. 

Michael blinks at him, in a daze. Aziraphale supposes he hasn’t seen her lacking for words before. In lieu of her perpetual veil of annoyance, she wears a mask of confusion, eyebrows high and mouth hanging open. 

“Mister --” she butchers Aziraphale’s last name, but what else is new “-- Do you have something to say?”

“Er,” Aziraphale repeats. The sentiment loses its luster the second time around. 

From her perch at his side, Anathema tugs at Aziraphale’s sleeve. “What are you _ doing _?” She hisses. 

“Yes?” Asks Michael. 

“I, er. I object.” 

Anathema plants her forehead firmly in her palm, muttering to herself. Hushed whispers filter through the room. 

Michael stares. Her eyebrow twitches. “That’s… not how this works.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He looks around at his stunned colleagues. “Right, er… Yes, I’m -- so sorry, if you’ll just… Excuse me.” 

He sits down again, attempting to hunch his shoulders in the most unobtrusive manner possible. Anathema gives him a look. If Aziraphale had to interpret it, it would be something along the lines of, _ What the _ hell _ did you just do? _ and Aziraphale returns it with a look that he hopes says, _ Don’t ask _me. 

“Right,” says Michael, the syrup back in her voice. “If we could all give a round of applause for --”

“I object!” 

Anathema clutches at Aziraphale’s sleeve, but it’s too late; he has risen again, standing in a sea of his seated colleagues. Once again, all heads swivel from Michael to him, as if following a particularly uncomfortable game of ping pong. 

“That is _ not _ how this _ works _ !” Snaps Michael, her perpetual composure finally snapping. The bulging vein in her forehead threatens to do the same. Her steely gaze pins Aziraphale for a long moment, and finally she spreads her arms, as if to say, _ Well? _

“Er, I -- it’s -- Well, you see -- _ Sandalphon? _Really?”

“Do you have a problem with our CEO’s selection, Mr. --” 

“Why, it’ll be a bloodbath!” Aziraphale insists. “Am I the only one who remembers his, er, Sales and Growth initiative last year? He practically burned the department to the ground!” 

He’s almost having an out of body experience -- he doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but now that they have begun to gush forward, he has no way to staunch the flow. Over a decade’s worth of pent up aggression seem to swell inside him, threatening to burst. 

“Yes, well,” says Michael. She gives pause, as if there is some way to address the rather horrific incentive put in place for six months the previous year; rather competitive and utterly ruthless, it had yielded good results. It had also yielded three dismissals, a number of broken pieces of office furniture, an assault charge, and countless numbers of associates crying over the water cooler. “Some departments require an extra ...incentive.” 

“Incentive? He’ll have us roaming around with someone’s head on a stick!” 

Someone laughs, and then quickly disguises it as a rather unconvincing cough. Aziraphale stands his ground, even as an anxious sweat collects at the nape of his neck. “What about Daniel? He’s more than fit. Or even --” it pains him to say it “-- even _ Uriel _, they would be a better fit than Sandalphon.” 

“I hardly think --” 

“And Gabriel!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Sure he’s… well, you know…” Gabriel fixes Aziraphale with a look, one that is somewhere between curious and wounded, and Aziraphale bites back a number of expressions, including, _ insane _ and _ insufferable _ and _ a science experiment in a GQ basement gone terribly wrong. _Empty hands grasping on nothing, he settles on, “....American. And the last year has been rough, but he certainly isn’t the only one to blame, and he’s not… the worst leader the office could have,” Aziraphale says, as diplomatically as possible. If anything, Sandalphon’s little experiment in the S&G department had driven away plenty of individuals with talent and connections. In any case, shareholders didn’t typically enjoy arriving at a board meeting to find two finance representatives physically fighting over the water cooler. They liked it even less when said water cooler went flying across the office, sending a Biblical flood of water coursing over their designer loafers, an incident that their particular branch still hasn’t quite lived down. 

Michael’s eye twitches, a break in composure that implies she is prepared to strangle Aziraphale with the string lights if she has to. Gabriel has hoisted The Box up on one hip. The rolled yoga mat he has always kept under his desk “in case of emergency” threatens to tip out side the side. He gives a minute gesture to Aziraphale, as if to silence him, and Aziraphale plows on.

He surprises himself with his next words. An apology for his outburst comes out sounding suspiciously like a firm, demanding, “And what about _ me _?”

Michael’s jaw actually drops. Whispers break out around the room. Aziraphale stands firm, shoulders set in a line. 

“What....about you?” Michael asks, once she has collected her jaw from the floor. The words sound fragmented, as if she has yet to piece them together in an order that makes any semblance of meaning. 

“I have been at this company for over a _ decade _ ,” Aziraphale says, as patiently as he can manage. Judging by the whispered _ “Holy shit!” _ that comes from Anathema at his side, he isn’t sure he accomplishes that. “I have managed projects across departments -- across branches! _ I _ was the one who had to clean up S&G after Sandalphon’s little battle royale last year.” Figuratively and literally, Aziraphale thinks, recalling the broken glass after a paperweight went through the conference room wall. “I have given my life to this… circus of a company, and have been passed over for _ seven _promotions in that time.” 

“Mr. --” Michael gets halfway through mangling Aziraphale’s last name before giving up. Smile in place, she hisses, “_ Aziraphale. _We hear your complaints. We do. But this is hardly the time to discuss your future with the company. Sit. Down.” 

Aziraphale looks around the room. Everyone is staring at him. Anathema has a hand to her mouth, as if in shock. Aziraphale would hazard a guess it’s more to hide the mirth in her expression. Another intern has a phone out and held at a strange angle with the kind of casual air that suggests he’s taking a video of some sort. The rest of them sit, quiet -- perfectly still, in their perfectly tailored suits, and perfectly styled hair, and Aziraphale feels, as he has felt for over a decade, out of place. 

“Apologies. You’re -- you’re absolutely right,” Aziraphale says slowly. He resists the urge to worry the sleeve of his jacket between his fingers, or fiddle with the heirloom ring on his finger. Instead, still standing upright, he looks Michael in the eye and says, “Now is not the time. I quit.” 

* * *

_DING! _

The lift door opens, onto the twelfth floor, and the tiny woman who has been standing between Aziraphale and Gabriel beelines out of the lift. Her face is flushed, despite the time of year; clearly, the effort of having to find somewhere to look other than the boxes overflowing with office supplies and desk lamps and yoga mats has caused a strain on the poor woman. The door closes behind her, trapping Gabriel and Aziraphale in a rather uncomfortable silence that has Aziraphale thinking that perhaps twelve flights of stairs weren’t so bad. Gabriel wouldn’t be able to follow, anyway, unless he wanted to send his stupid exercise ball spiraling through the stairwell. 

Aziraphale deludes himself into thinking that things will be fine, provided that Gabriel doesn’t -- 

“So. The things you said up there.” 

\-- do that. 

“Oh, er,” Aziraphale says, wondering what exactly he is alluding to. Aziraphale said a number of _ things, _ after all; he hadn’t exactly stopped saying _ things _ as he loaded his Box with the personal effects from his desk. And before making a spectacle of himself trying to push the frosted glass door open while both hands were occupied with keeping the bottom from falling out of his box, he had had a number of extremely choice _ things _to say to Michael and Sandalphon. 

Aziraphale doesn’t suppose he is proud of that, but it had felt so _ good. _

_ Crowley would be proud. _

The thought rises, unbidden, and Aziraphale clutches the edges of The Box so tightly that his knuckles go white. He imagines Crowley, hunched over a tiny cup of espresso or splayed back across a park bench, laughing, as Aziraphale recounts the tale. The mental image twists in Aziraphale’s gut like a knife. 

_ DING! _

The elevator opens, and a nicely suited man steps in, performing the same act of politeness gymnastics the woman had, contorting his neck in all manners to avoid focusing on the markers of Gabriel’s and Aziraphale’s dismissals. 

Gabriel sucks in a breath, his cheeks puffing out comically, and then lets out an exhale that seems to last about three floors. He shifts the box, easily balancing it against one hip. He either does not notice or does not care that doing so results in the yoga mat whacking their fellow passenger in the arm. Aziraphale attempts to make meaningful, apologetic eye contact. The man pretends not to notice. 

“Thank you,” Gabriel says, earnestly, and when the lift opens, Aziraphale wants to follow the other man out. Gabriel gives him a fist bump on the shoulder. He must decide that isn’t enough, because he then places his arm on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale would willingly decapitate himself in the lift doors, at this point. “What you said back there…. It was really moving.”

“Er.” 

_ “DING!” _

The elevator opens on a tall woman holding a stack of files. She looks up from the papers briefly, absentmindedly, then back down. She does a double take when she sees Gabriel’s hand on Aziraphales shoulder. Instead of entering the lift, she does what any sensible woman in the same situation would do; she pretends to count the files in her hands, mutters to herself almost convingly about forgetting one, and turns to take the stairs. 

“I just want you to know, I really appreciated it,” Gabriel says.

“Ah, er, yes, quite.”

“I mean it,” Gabriel continues earnestly, and he _ squeezes _ Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I mean -- _ wow. _That was something, huh?”

“Quite,” Aziraphale agrees. 

“Without even a severance package --” 

Aziraphale cringes. Halfway through shoving books and mugs into The Box the same thought had occurred to him, but at that point he had been too hyped up on adrenaline to care. It had been years since Aziraphale had last quit a job, and he usually did so with personalized stationery and handwritten thank you notes, rather than salting the earth behind him. 

“ If there’s anything I can do --”

“Gabriel?”

_ DING! _

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” 

It’s raining when they reach the Tesla parked outside. Aziraphale waits an excruciating moment while the back doors open, then loads The Box into the backseat. He wordlessly holds a hand out to Gabriel, who seems to sense the shift in atmosphere, and hands him the keys to the car without a single protest. 

* * *

Later that evening, Aziraphale buys a pack of cigarettes. 

It’s been years since he has done more than bum one from an acquaintance or, say, a neighbor. Now that he’s unemployed, Aziraphale supposes he shouldn’t waste the money on such frivolity, but he finds he doesn’t care. Even Gabriel is indulging this evening, after all, having spread a thin layer of jam over one of the seed cakes he considers “dessert”. 

Aziraphale sits on the front porch and lights the cigarette with a souvenir lighter that is more ornamental than functional at this point, but it does the job. He inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, holding it, and then releases it toward the sky. It’s freezing yet oddly clear; Aziraphale watches the way the smoke curls up toward the stars. He remembers how he had stood huddled with Crowley that first night, when they had hatched their little plot. He remembers watching the top of Crowley’s bowed head as the other man smoothly lit the cigarette in his hand, the way one of his carmine curls had brushed against Aziraphale’s knuckles. 

Now, Aziraphale cradles his phone in that hand, thumb hovering indecisively over the surface. He keeps changing his mind. It’s late. Painful as it may be, Aziraphale still tunes into Crowley’s show religiously, and barring any kind of interruption to his schedule, he should be airing anytime soon. 

Aziraphale takes another drag off the cigarette. He briefly entertains the thought that he could simply call into the studio -- Crowley takes callers, most evenings. He may not be the most practical of advice columnists, but he is certainly a humorous one, and Aziraphale can just imagine his sardonic take on the situation. 

Aziraphale has practically committed the station number to memory by now. His fingers dance over the screen of his phone, tapping out a string of digits made familiar through radio contests, song requests, late night storytelling. One tap, and he could be connected…

What would he even say, Aziraphale wonders?

_ Hello, I just quit my job. I don’t know what to do now. _

_ Hello, how do you apologize to a friend? I think I’ve made a mistake. _

_ Hello, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. _

_ Hello, I think I’m free. I don’t know what to do with it. _

_ Hello, could we try again? _

_ Hello, I think I’m in love with you. _

Aziraphale doesn’t call. 

Instead, he chain smokes three more cigarettes, and absentmindedly thumbs through real estate agents on his phone, wondering whether its strength or cowardice that guides his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you made it this far, I admire you -- this is a long chapter, and a lot happens. Next update will probably be a bit shorter and, being the final chapter, won't be ending on a cliffhanger. 
> 
> If you enjoyed it and want to read more, please let me know in the comments! I am hoping to update again next Sunday, though I've been sick the last week which has impacted my editing schedule for the final chapter. Also, I kind of breezed over the date in this one -- while I actually wrote it in full, it didn't work well with the flow of the story, and pushed the chapter to nearly 20k. If anyone would like to read it individually, though, I might publish it as a coda. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone for reading, and comments and kudos are always appreciated. You can find me, as always, on tumblr, where I am [aziraphvle](aziraphvle.tumblr.com).


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